Regrets
by Ladyhawke 620
Summary: Story 8 - Sequel to Torn Asunder,Regrets picks up after the events of a rather costly favor for Michael. Unfortunately, it seems the events of Torn Asunder are still in play and Red Star and everything Hawke loved still in peril.
1. Chapter 1

Regrets -

Disclaimer - Set in the timeline originally created by Rachel500, of ten years after Dom's death in the events of the original Blackjack episode, this story utilizes characters created and owned by Belisarius and Universal from the original Airwolf series as well as USA's Airwolf II season. They are not mine and I make no claim to them or profit from them. No copyright infringement is intended. The characters of Seb, Nicky and Amelia were created by Rachel500 and belong to her. Roper and Jade are mine, as is the story.

Introduction - Regrets is the eighth story in this vein, and is **part two **to Torn Asunder. It takes place shortly after the chaotic events of Torn Asunder where Hawke is called to do a favor for Michael, a favor that has rather dire consequences for all involved. Stringfellow Roper is Hawke's grown son, Ho Minh from the episode "Daddy's gone a Huntin' in Season 1 of the series. Seb is Stringfellow Hawke's younger brother by nearly eighteen years - if you need background on this character, I strongly suggest going back and reading Rachel500's stories.

* * *

Prologue -

A lone eagle wheeled on the wind currents high above the lake, her lonely screech echoing on the wind. The haunting sound of a Prokiev melody played on a Stradivarius cello teased at the edges of her mind, tempting her to turn and look. She knew from experience better.

Wincing, Caitlin squeezed her eyes shut as the tears trickled down her cheeks. So long as she didn't look, the sound was still there.

* * *

Chapter 1 -

Listening to the minister speak, ten year old Nicky bit the inside of his jaw. He didn't care what all these people said, he thought angrily. His father couldn't be dead. He would know…

The wind blew in off the lake, snatching at jackets and cloaks, ripping Caitlin's hair free from its short, loose braid. She let go of Nicky's hand to shove a wayward, whipping strand of red out of her eyes and behind her ear.

Glaring, his blue eyes angry and hostile, Nicky glowered at her, at Archangel who'd brought the news of his father's death, and Roper and all the others who believed it. He knew better. Looking up, his uncle Saint John pinned him with a warning grey gaze as he squirmed.

Nicky's eyes narrowed at him, as his mom reached for his hand. Fury was pounding through his veins now. How dare you! He thought. He couldn't believe his uncle Saint John. His dad had looked for him for more than fifteen years, and he just gave up. His dad would've never gave up! Seething, Nicky snatched his hand out of Caitlin's, never hearing her startled gasp as he tore free and pelted up the worn path towards the cabin.

Face pale and freckles in stark relief, Caitlin Hawke stared after her son, torn between the memorial for String and him. She drew in a shaky breath, feeling like she'd been hanging on the last few days with her white knuckles. Hawke's death was hard enough. Must she now also lose her son as well?

Raising his head, Saint John watched his nephew make his precipitous retreat. Sighing, he started to go after him.

"No," Jo whispered, grabbing his arm. "Let him go, Sinj."

Startled, the hazel grey eyes flew to her as he started to protest.

She shook her head sadly. "He needs to grieve in his own way. They'll be plenty of time later, Sinj. String would've understood. He's just a little boy who's lost his father. You of all people should know how that feels."

Subsiding, Saint John stepped back into line with her his eyes troubled, even as Michael wrapped a comforting arm around Caitlin's waist watching the boy go, and she rested her head on his shoulder. Beside her, Marella rubbed her shoulder in soothing circles, her own brown eyes suspiciously bleak. No, he might not be happy with Nicky's behavior, but he could certainly understand it.

* * *

_A much younger Stringfellow Hawke sat on the ground beside the granite marker that held his parent's names. He drew skinny legs up under his chin, arms wrapped around them, sapphire blue eyes bright with unshed tears._

_"String, we have to go home. Dom'll be worried," his older brother cajoled._

_The younger Hawke brother clenched his jaw stubbornly. "I'm not going, he knows where to find me."_

_"Yeah, he does, String," the older teenager growled exasperated, running a frustrated hand through his blonde hair, standing it on end. "That's exactly why he'll be worried."_

_Startled, Stringfellow Hawke gave his brother a baleful stare. "What do you mean?" he demanded, his jaw clenching tightly, obviously spoiling for a fight._

_"Look," Saint John began, his own hands gesturing wildly. "I know you're hurting. I miss mom and dad, too. But what you're doing isn't fair to Dom! It isn't fair to any of us! He's trying, really trying, String! He lost his best friend, too. Now, you're got him feeling like he's failed Dad, as well!"_

_The angry blue eyes narrowed. "Failed him, how?" he demanded, his jaw still tight. _

_"By falling into this pit you've dug for yourself, String. Dug it with both hands and refused to climb out. How do you think Dom's supposed to feel knowing he let his best friend's son do that? The son he promised to protect like his own son."_

_String winced, abruptly ashamed. His brother's words had a ring of truth in them. Truth he didn't want to acknowledge, but had to._

_Mom and Dad were gone. He knew that, had to accept it whether he wanted to or not. Saint John was right, what he was doing to Dom wasn't fair, not to either one of them, but him especially._

_The grizzled Italian had loved Alan Hawke, loved him like a brother. And had loved his sons like they were his own, heck, to all intents he supposed with a wry, strangled laugh he guessed they were. No one else had wanted them…_

_He couldn't hurt him. No matter what his feelings and regrets were about his parents' deaths, he couldn't cause the old Italian more pain, than he'd already endured. He'd had enough._

_Sighing, he looked up at his brother and reached out his hand. Saint John took it, dragging the slighter boy to his feet, a look of relief in his eyes._

_"You're right," String muttered. It's time to go home."_

* * *

Nicky sat on the porch step, glaring at the proceedings with angry blue eyes. He didn't care what they said, his father wasn't dead. He would feel it if he were, would have known if Airwolf were gone.

Doubt rushed in momentarily, clawing at him. Wouldn't he?

Angry, at himself and them, Nicky slammed into the house, the door crashing shut behind him. Restless and seeking solace, he plopped down on the hearth, the warmth of hundreds of past fires easing the ache in his soul. Idly, he reached out, caressing the satiny finish of his dad's Stradivarius cello beneath his hands. His finger plucked the string listening to the warm buzz of the note in the air.

He couldn't play it, he thought regretfully. String had offered to teach him no so long ago, and he'd turned him down flat. Old people music, he'd called it. Hawke had said nothing, merely let it go, but he'd seen the pain and hurt in his eyes. He should've taken him up on it, he realized. Right now he'd give anything to hear his dad's cello, to listen to the mournful lullabye he played for the eagle on the lake.

He could play the guitar - a little. Badly, he admitted. Hawke had taught him that, but String was less serious with it, it was more a diversion, a toy, something to entertain him occasionally, no window to the soul there. A skill he'd picked up in 'Nam when he'd had no other choice if he'd wanted music. Now both sat idle.

Nicky swallowed. He owed his dad an apology. "Sorry," he whispered, running his finger across the strings of the Strad one last time, promising himself some things would change when he got his dad back.

* * *

Caitlin sighed, closing the door behind her. Wearily, she pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. Much as she loved her friends and family, she'd thought they would never leave. Hadn't known how much longer she could keep it together.

Marella had offered to stay, but heaven help her she couldn't do it. She'd bitterly resented her friend's having the man she loved, while she was without hers. She knew Marella had some guilt over the knowledge her freedom had cost Hawke his life, but she also knew it was a choice Hawke had made - not without regrets, but willingly nonetheless. It didn't make it any easier though.

A door slammed upstairs. Nicky, she thought without hesitation. Nicky shutting out the world. Her son of the brooding silences and angry sky blue eyes…every inch Hawke's son.

"Damn," she whispered, bowing her head, sliding down the door, cradling her head in her arms as she hit the floor. How was she supposed to explain to him, when she didn't even understand herself?

* * *

Silently, Jade fixed a salad for dinner. She hadn't seen much of Seb since their return to the condo from the memorial. Almost as quickly as they'd returned, he'd headed for the back deck, the view of the ocean and solitude.

Pouring herself a glass of wine, she frowned. She knew he was hurting, hadn't the slightest idea of what to say to him. She and Hawke hadn't been that close, but she'd never doubted he'd loved his brother. She knew he'd feared her hurting him - with good reason it seemed, concerning the recent events. Ironic though, it'd been Hawke who'd died and not her.

Irritated at her own maudlin thoughts, she set the wine glass down on the counter with a muted thwack. There was nothing she could do for Hawke now, she thought rebelliously , but Seb was still here and so was she, and she refused to live with one foot in the grave.

Pulling her hair free of the clip that held it, she slipped out the glass patio doors barefoot to the wood deck.

The sun was going down, barely an orange glow on the horizon. Seb stood at the railing, staring off into the distance, lost in his own thoughts.

Bare feet silent on the decking, Jade slipped up behind him, quietly wrapping her strong, slender arms around his waist. "Been out here a long time," she murmured.

Wrapping his own arm around her, Seb exhaled heavily, as he kissed her hair. "Yeah, I suppose so." He made no move to go in though. The tension in his body was palpable.

"What 'cha thinking?" she whispered softly. The wind off the ocean picked up around them, whipping her long black hair around their bodies, snaking the strands around them as if intertwining their souls.

He turned from the darkening horizon to meet her gaze with fathomless blue eyes. "That I've been a fool."

It wasn't the answer Jade had been expecting and it must've shown in her face. Loosening her grip on him, she leaned back, facing him suddenly afraid. "How so?" she whispered, nervously biting her lip.

He gave a sad smile, thinking of his brother and Cait, of the fear he'd had of losing her and how ironically, it'd been she who lost him. One look at her today had told him how badly she was grieving.

Raising his head, he gave Jade a wry grin, more grimace than smile, his gaze slipping uneasily away before he forced it back to hers, even as his grasp on her upper arms tightened.

"Hawke was right," he muttered.

She frowned. Okay, it was obvious she'd missed something in this conversation, she thought.

"I was a fool to get involved with you."

Stunned, Jade staggered back a step, feeling like she'd been slapped. Agonized, she stared at him, wondering wildly if it was fair to hate a dead man.

Hurt and fury at Seb, at Stringfellow Hawke, slammed through her, like a physical entity at his words. "Let me go," she spat through cold lips, trying to pull loose, shoving away from him. "Let me go, Seb!" she cried, starting to struggle in earnest when he didn't let go.

Jaw tightening, Seb's fingers clenched around her arms.

"Hear me out," he snapped, jerking her to him, realizing abruptly if he let her go now he'd lose her. Angrily, he shook her as she fought him.

"String was right. I was a fool to get involved with you, with the Firm, knowing what you did for a living, knowing what problems it brought him and Cait."

Jade's eyes narrowed as she fought back. "And just how do you think what you do is any different, Seb Hawke?"

Blue eyes glittered angrily as he glared back at her, torn between grief and what he felt for her. How could he even contemplate a relationship with her considering what had happened to his brother? "It just is," he snarled.

"No, Seb, it's not!" Jade cried. "I work for the Firm. I'm a spy. I carry a gun and sometimes I use it. Tell me how that's different from what you do!"

Furious, he scowled at her, his blue eyes like chips of ice. "It just is."

Something inside her snapped. Planting both hands on his chest, she shoved. "You hypocrite," she hissed. "You do exactly what I do, what Hawke did." Anger coursed through her veins giving her strength she hadn't known she possessed. She spun on her heel, heading for the edge of the dock.

Seething, Seb grabbed for her. "Jade!"

Tossing an angry glare over her shoulder, long dark black strands whipping across her face, she glared at him. "Get away from me, Seb!" Whirling, she kept going.

Stunned, Seb stared after her.

Ten yards down the beach, she paused head bowed. "You know your problem, Seb?" she yelled. "You're a coward! Hawke and Caitlin had each other for eleven years. Yeah, he died too soon, but at least he and Caitlin had each other for however long they got. He took the chance!" Tears streamed down her face as she raised her head, raking wind tossed hair out of her face. "What are you going to have at the end of it all?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Blood warm and sticky trickled into his eyes. Fire reaching up for him, flames encircling, vision blurring. Couldn't breathe. Smoke everywhere._

_Wheezing Stringfellow Hawke struggled to free himself. Coughing, lungs burning, trapped, fighting the cockpit door. No use, it was no use. There was nothing he could do…no way out._

_

* * *

_

Breathe rasping in her lungs, Caitlin shoved upright, fingers clutching the sheets, heart pounding. "Hawke!" she cried, her fingers closing on the empty pillow beside her, clutching, seeking. He was nowhere to be found.

Outside, the lightening crashed, the wind whipping against the eaves, the sound of rain against the roof. Reality crushed in. It was no better than the dream. Swiping at the tears on her cheeks, Cait swung her feet over the side of the bed. "Curse you, Stringfellow Hawke," she whispered raggedly. "What am I supposed to do without you?"

Running shaking fingers through her hair, Caitlin rose. She'd had enough of the dreams over the past week to know there'd be no more sleep for her tonight.

Grabbing her robe off the chair by the end of the bed, she tied it around her, trudging wearily down the stairs in search of a cup of coffee. The sound of Nicky's restless sleep reminding her she wasn't the only one sleeping poorly these days.

She sighed. Logic told her she needed to move on, had to move on. The overwhelming grief was threatening to devour them all. Nicky hadn't spoken to her in a week - not since the news of Hawke's death had come. Frankly, she couldn't blame him she was blasted angry herself - not that she could tell it was doing any good.

Barefoot, she padded into the kitchen. Reaching into the cabinet, she drug out the container of coffee precisely measuring out enough for two cups. Dumping it and the water in, she sighed leaning back against the cabinet.

The thing was, she couldn't get the thought out of her mind. What if Hawke were alive? What if by some miracle he'd survived? The dreams were making her crazy, plaguing her with what ifs. She had to know though, had to see for herself. Treacherously, a voice inside her demanded, what if there were nothing left to find? Groaning, she dropped her head into her hands.

Quiet steps padded down the stairs. Hearing them, Cait raised troubled eyes from her coffee cup to the sound. Unsurprised, she spotted Nicky there. Her sleep hadn't been the only thing troubled tonight, she mused.

He inclined a chin in her direction. "You're going after him, aren't you," it was a statement rather than a question, and Caitlin realized with a start she was.

"Yeah," she murmured, troubled blue-green eyes searching his own. The thought of leaving her children made her guilty. If Hawke with his skill and talent hadn't managed to penetrate Van der Berg's fortress, what made her foolish enough to think she could?

"He's alive," Nicky stated flatly, his blue eyes a piercing shade.

"How do you know?" Caitlin whispered, desperately wishing she had his certainty.

Looking away Nicky shrugged, the mop of reddish-brown hair falling in his eyes as he did so. "Just do," he stated simply. Grinning abruptly, he eyed her. "So do you, if you only listen."

And despite herself, Cait found herself grinning back at her son across the rim of the coffee cup.

* * *

Wearily, Marella Coldsmith Briggs eyed the report in front of her. Desk piled high with satellite read outs, coded folders, financial statements and a half-empty, forgotten cup of cold coffee, she contemplated the report in front of her. To her left, she could hear Jade Sinclair's fingers as they clattered over the keyboard next to her.

She frowned, the intelligent brown eyes narrowing at the information in front of her. Nowhere could she find a clue as to who or what had persuaded Thor to be turned. Hard-nosed and hear-hearted, the only loyalty he'd ever shown was to the Firm - which made his defection all the harder to understand.

Frustrated, she smacked the folder down on her desk. Startled, Jade raised her eyes from the computer screen to look at her friend. "Yeah?" she asked.

"It just doesn't make sense!" Marella snapped. "There's no reason that I can find for what he did, and yet I saw it with my own two eyes…"

"Power? Greed?" Jade suggested. "Sometimes, it doesn't take much."

"Maybe," Marella answered, clearly unconvinced. "But he had plenty of opportunities over the years to go that route. Why now?"

Jade shrugged, "Maybe he just got tired of waiting."

"No," Marella sighed rubbing her temple. "There's more to it than that. I just have to find it."

* * *

Shaking hands, Jo was just bidding the last of her charter customers goodbye, when the postman drove up.

"Hey, Phil!" she said giving him a tired, if sincere smile. "It's good to see you again."

"Jo!" he exclaimed giving her an enthusiastic hug. "It's good to see you again, girl!"

Smiling, Jo eyed the wiry, graying mailman she'd known most of her life. His route had taken him past here as long as she could remember, back even when she and String and Saint John had been kids in the summer and they'd teased her unmercifully, chasing her around the hanger.

The thought of String crossed her mind, and her smile vanished. Swallowing, she tried for something approaching cheerful as she faced the older man.

"Got lots of mail for me today, I see," she teased half-heartedly, reaching out for the bundle he handed to her. "What do you do, save it all up to drop off here at Santini Air?"

Phil grinned. "How'd you guess, missy? Got to find some way to visit with my best girl."

She shook her head amused, knowing the man had to be seventy if he was a day.

Handing off the bundle to her, somehow it shifted, getting away from both of them and hitting the ground, scattering. He groaned, leaning over to pick it up. "Sorry, 'bout that Jo."

She frowned, noting the older man sounded tired. "Nah, no problem, Phil. Let me get it." She bent to pick up the letters.

Irregardless, the older man kept gathering, both of their hands reaching for the last stack of mail at the same time. A self-addressed envelope marked Stringfellow Hawke in his bold scrawl coming to the top, Jo faltered as she reached for it.

Picking it up with gnarled fingers, the old postman rose, handing it off gingerly to her. Jo took it, not quite meeting his eyes.

He sighed. He'd worked this route a lot of years, known Dom and the boys he'd raised as his own. It seemed hard to believe the scamp he'd known as a kid and the taciturn young man he'd grown into was gone. He'd known how the young man had mourned when Dom had died and how pleased he'd been to have Jo finally back and his brother happy again. Somehow it didn't seem quite fair.

"I'm real sorry to hear about the boy, Miss Jo," he muttered awkwardly.

Startled, Jo raised tear-filled blue eyes to his face, realizing with a jolt the "boy" was String. Seemed funny she'd been thinking about when they were kids and Phil had referred to him as the "boy" in almost the same breath.

"Thanks, Phil," she whispered. "I appreciate it."

The silence stretched out between them, awkward with things too hard to say. Finally, the old man turned to go. "Well, I guess I'd better be getting at it," he grumbled. "Santini Air ain't my last stop of the day."

Jo smiled. It was hard not to like the crusty old man. "Sure, Phil. See you tomorrow."

He paused, getting into the mail truck, deliberating with himself over saying it. That boy'd been prickly as a porcupine over sharing some things, those cold blue eyes pinning you to the wall. Still, he thought the girl should know.

"You know, Miss Jo, that boy was real glad to have you back. Said it made his brother the happiest he'd seen him in a long time. He was glad to have you back for him as well. Doubt he told you, knowing how he was, so I'm telling you." Climbing into his truck, he went to go, throwing up his hand as he went. "See you tomorrow, missy."

Shaking her head, Jo returned the wave biting back sudden tears. String had been a lunkhead and he'd driven her crazy sometimes, but oh, she was going to miss him.

Abruptly, she grinned even as she swiped at the tear running down her cheek. Trust him to have the postman deliver a message from beyond the grave. Only a Hawke.

* * *

Leaning over the desk, phone pinched between his shoulder and jaw, the director going on and on about an aerial stunt he wanted them to do, Saint John made all the appropriate noises at all the appropriate places. It was a stunt he'd done hundreds of times, and while challenging, he didn't exactly need a play by play of how to do it.

Jo walked into the office an armful of mail in her hands and a perplexed frown on her face. The majority of it she dumped unread in a pile on her desk. The manila with the distinctive return address of a local attorney she did not.

"What's this?" she mouthed, waving the letter in front of him.

Saint John grimaced, reaching for it. "Look Nick, how 'bout I give you a call back tomorrow and get with you about the details?"

The rambling on the other end of the line continued.

"Yeah, yeah," he agreed. "Sounds great. I'll talk to you tomorrow," he dropped the phone back onto the base with a clunk.

Reaching out, he took the envelope from Jo's fingers. "What's this?"

Eyebrows climbing, she shrugged. "Don't know. Thought I'd ask you, before I opened it."

Saint John shot her a quick look before tearing it open.

Sliding the official-looking paperwork out of it, he skimmed it, a look of confusion on his face. Tossing it aside, he reached for the letter inside addressed to him in Caitlin's fine, neat handwriting.

Picking up the documents, Jo read them a sense of unease stealing over her at the words.

She finished the documents at about the same time he finished the letter.

"It's a power of attorney, Sinj," she said, raising troubled blue eyes to his. "Why's Cait giving us a power of attorney?"

Saint John frowned, as he raising worried hazel eyes to meet hers. "Because I'm listed as guardian should anything ever happen to her and String."

Looking perplexed, Jo shrugged. "Yeah, but why power of attorney, now? She's fine. Guardianship only goes into effect if something happens to her."

Saint John handed her the letter. "Because she's going after String."

* * *

Throwing the last of her things into a duffel, Caitlin Hawke reached for the Walther PPK laying on the bed. Efficiently, she checked the clip before pulling another couple clips out of the drawer underneath the nightstand.

"How long you been standing there?" she asked abruptly sensing Roper standing in the doorway and straightening.

"Long enough," came the succinct answer. He looked down at the boy at his elbow. "How 'bout giving us a minute, Nicky? I need to talk to your mom."

Nicky scowled, the blue eyes openly hostile, but he went. For the life of him, he didn't get why they acted like sending him out of the room protected him. It sure hadn't done much when his dad had disappeared.

Roper watched the boy go, before he turned his gaze to Cait. "Saint John know you're doing this?" he asked.

Cait looked at her watch. She shrugged fatalistically. "He probably does now."

The younger man raised an eyebrow. So the answer was no, she hadn't told him. He wasn't sure what the rest was about, and he didn't ask. "Cait, this is a bad idea," he said trying again. "Van der Berg's a nasty character."

"I'm well aware of that," the redhead retorted, not looking at him as she continued packing. "This isn't about him."

Roper frowned. He'd grown to love Cait, Hawke's wife, but the woman his father had married was as much a puzzle to him as String had ever been. "Then what's it about?" he demanded.

She zipped the duffel up before slinging it over her shoulder and facing him. The blue-green eyes were determined. "String," she said.

Roper frowned, his own sapphire blue eyes startled. Surely, she couldn't mean what he thought…looking over at the pale, freckled skin and the defiance in her stance, he knew she meant exactly what he was thinking.

"Hell, Cait," he cursed in frustration and despair. "String's dead. There's no way he could've survived an explosion like that one. Nobody could've!"

She rounded on him, eyes blazing. "Then I guess you don't know Hawke like I do. Her eyes hard, she made for the stairs.

Dumbfounded, Hawke's son stared at her. Surely, she wasn't serious…

"Cait, wait!" he yelled, knowing he had to do something.

Halfway down the stairs she paused, looking up at him with wary eyes.

Frantically, he scrambled for some logic, some sanity to stop her. Spotting Amelia and Nicky on the front porch step he gave a relieved breath. The kids! Surely, she wouldn't just go off and leave them.

"What about Nicky and Amelia?" he demanded.

Cait dropped her gaze, looking over at her children, her eyes softening momentarily and her expression wistful for a moment.

Relieved, he thought he'd finally gotten through to her. The next minute, he knew he was wrong.

"Saint John'll be on his way. They'll be fine until he gets here."

Real fear clutched at him now.

"And if you don't come back?" he demanded bluntly, knowing he'd already lost the argument. "What then?"

The red-head sighed, her slight shoulders slumping disconsolately. "Then they'll know I did everything I could to find their dad, String. They have each other. Saint John would die to protect them, he loves them like his own. They'll be fine." Her eyes lighting on them she smiled sadly, before heading for the door.

Roper groaned. What was Caitlin thinking? If Van der Berg had killed Hawke in Airwolf, what chance could she possibly have? Ah, hell, Hawke would throttle him letting her go like this.

Agitated, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

On the front steps, Caitlin ruffled Nicky's hair one last time as she kissed Amelia goodbye, and headed for the jet ranger.

"Crap," he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time. "Wait, Cait!" he yelled over the sound of the rotor blades. "I'm coming with you!"


	3. Chapter 3

Leaning against the cushioned softness of the chair at her back, Caitlin tried to feign a nonchalance she surely didn't feel. The success or failure of her going after Hawke would rest in the next couple minutes and her convincing Archangel to go along with her plan. And she knew all too well, he of all people would not be an easy sell.

"So what are you going to do if he says no?" Roper asked, eyeing the slender red-head seated across from him. "You've gotta know it's a very real possibility." he continued.

Startled, Cait's blue-green gaze flashed to his. "I won't fail," she retorted. "I can't."

Huffing out an exasperated breath, the younger man crossed his arms, wondering what was taking the spy so long.

The door swung open, Michael stepping through it, followed by Marella. Non-plussed Roper eyed the spy surprised at how he seemed to have aged overnight. Deep slashes of pain marked his lean cheeks, angling down from the neatly trimmed mustache. The limp was more pronounced than he remembered it as well.

_Had Hawke's death and the knowledge of the part he'd played in it aged him that much? He wondered. Or was it some underlying after effect of Van der Berg's drug treatments?_

There was no denying the pleasure that lit up his good eye at seeing Caitlin though. A warm grin lit Michael's weathered features as he strode across the carpet towards her.

"Cait!" he exclaimed. "What a welcome surprise!" Beside him, Marella looked equally pleased, enveloping the shorter woman in a welcoming hug, even as Michael grasped her hands.

Shuffling, Roper looked away, awkward with the intimacy of a relationship that had obviously withstood far too many tests over the years. What would it have been like, to have known his father like that? He wondered, briefly, before shoving the thought away with a bitter sigh. Didn't much matter now, he grimaced. The man was gone. Whatever unanswered hopes or regrets he had about their relationship would stay just that - unanswered. Flinching, he turned away his own blue eyes hard as he looked away unseeingly out the window.

Holding Caitlin's hands, Michael took a step backward, his good eye searching out her features. "It's good to have you back, Cait," he murmured huskily. "But this isn't a social call, is it?"

Squeezing his fingers, the red-head stepped back in the fading afternoon sun, it glinting off the coppery highlights in her hair. "No, Michael," she said soberly. "It's not. We need to talk."

The spy nodded, drawing himself up to his full height. "I figured as much," he said grimly, gesturing to the chair behind her. "Have a seat."

Swallowing, she met his eyes and did as he asked.

* * *

Absently, Michael leaned back in his seat, eyeing Hawke's young wife thoughtfully. Long fingers smoothed his mustache, even as his one good eye narrowed on her intently.

"You realize the likelihood of him being alive?" he questioned, templing his fingers on the desk in front of him. "It'd take a miracle for someone to have survived that explosion."

Caitlin raised unwavering eyes to meet his. "I realize that, Michael. I also know Hawke seemed to have a knack in pulling off miracles. I have to know for certain."

Beside him Marella shifted, logic warring with her sympathy for her longtime friend and Hawke's widow. "Cait, the odds of String being alive are seven hundred thousand to one. I saw the site…"

Frustration surged through Caitlin's veins lending her strength. Placing her hands on the edge of the desk, she shoved to her feet. "Then it's a good thing Hawke never knew the odds, Marella!"

"Cait!" the assistant deputy director exclaimed. "This is crazy! You can't honestly believe String is …"

Michael threw out a hand, effectively silencing her arguments. His blue eye met Caitlin's with understanding. "I think Cait's aware of the odds, Marella. What she's saying is they don't matter."

"Michael!" the woman protested, wondering if everyone in the room had taken leave of their senses except her. "You saw the site! How can you agree to this?"

Pushing to his own feet, Michael leaned heavily on the desk, reaching for the rosewood cane. "I saw the explosion and I saw where the missiles hit, Marella. I didn't see Airwolf, and I sure didn't see Hawke."

Stunned, Marella gaped at him. "Michael, you can't be saying what I think you're saying!"

"I am saying exactly that," he said darkly, his tone controlled and brooking no argument. "What do you need, Cait?"

Grinning, Caitlin shot Roper a look of triumph.

He shook his head in disbelief, the faintest traces of a bemused smile lurking around the corners of his mouth.

Her gaze swung back to Michael's - all business now. "The Sikorsky, a full compliment of armament on her, and a couple of refueling points."

He nodded, reaching out for her hand across the desk. "Consider it done."

"Michael!" Marella's appalled tone echoed on his ears even as she smacked a coffee cup down onto the desk.

He acted as though he hadn't heard it, as he continued to hold onto Caitlin's hand. "Be careful," he whispered, his blue eye serious.

She nodded, letting go of his hand. "Thanks, Michael," she murmured. "For everything." Behind her she heard the door open as Roper waited for her.

* * *

Pacing the corridors of Red Star, Roper at her side she headed for the stairs at the end of the hallway. She could hear the soft snick of his shoes beside her. Aside from that though, he was silent. Casting a glance over her shoulder as she reached for the knob, she saw Seb and Rivers headed into Michael's office.

Instinctively, she knew their entrance had everything to do with her. Michael might sympathize with her, might even pray hope against hope Hawke was alive, but he'd protect his investment. If there was the slightest chance Airwolf had survived the explosion, that Hawke might be alive and that either might be under Van der Berg's control he'd take whatever steps were necessary to protect Red Star and the secrets she held.

She didn't begrudge him the action, knew whatever actions he took were a necessity, but it drove home all too clearly the fact that any time she might have was fast running out.

Roper paused, holding the stairwell door open for her and catching sight for the first time of the other two heading into Michael's office. He quirked an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?" he asked glancing over his shoulder.

She sighed grimly, remembering Mike's comments on the Raven. "Probably not."

His eyes narrowed on her accessingly.

"Looks like the Raven is about to be pressed into service," she murmured, referring to the Firm's new gunship. She might not be mach capable, but on the battlefield she looked to be pound for pound faster and deadlier than Airwolf.

"She's not finished with the testing phase," the younger pilot protested.

"No, she's not," Caitlin agreed. "But if Airwolf's still around and Van der Berg's got her, they're going to need all the help they can get."

Roper scowled, unconvinced.

Grasping his arm, Cait drove her point home. "Airwolf was still in the testing phase when Moffat stole her. She flattened Red Star. Michael and Marella were about the only ones who survived that day, and they paid a pretty high price, barely escaping with their lives.

We still don't know what Thor was up to, Roper, what his plans were. Just because he's dead, doesn't mean the balls not still in play. If Van der Berg has Airwolf…"

"Then our troubles may only be beginning," he broke in, his voice harsh.

She paused, drawing a heaving breath, "Yeah."

* * *

Furious beyond words, Marella turned on Michael. It was a state that seldom hit, but in her opinion he more than warranted today. "I don't believe you!" she hissed. "You saw the site, Michael! It'd take a miracle for either Hawke or Airwolf to have survived that. And now you've gone and let Caitlin go back into that! Why? What are you thinking? Is it going to assuage your guilt if she gets herself killed too?"

Seething, she paced the room, the swish of her silk skirt swirling around her legs as she paced.

Implacably, Michael eyed her. "Did you see Airwolf, Marella?" he demanded.

"No, but…"

"Any signs of Hawke? Human remains?"

"No," she answered. "But we ran scans, Michael. There were no signs of life either. If Airwolf hit armed, carrying that Shrike…"

"What if he deployed the Shrike, emptied the armament before she hit?"

Freezing, Marella paused mid-stride, gaping at him. "You can't be serious, Michael!"

Silently he waited, leaning his weight against the desk.

Dumbfounded, she stared at him. "You are serious!" she exclaimed aghast. "Michael!"

"Well?" he asked.

Frantically, she tried to marshal logical arguments as to why the thought was crazy. That was what her mind was telling her anyway - she'd seen the site after all. But now the same cursed logic that'd convinced her of Hawke's death ran the other way.

The Shrike had been deployed - that much was certain from the fact the SAM had been destroyed - it was pushing coincidence too much to think that Airwolf had crashed into it when she hit, taking it out. It was possible, unlikely, but possible, Hawke had emptied the other missiles into the hillside - he had done similar things before to decoy heat seeking missiles he couldn't outrun, to fool enemy aircraft.

There had been no sign of Airwolf amongst the rubble. The pit, the devastation had been so complete it hadn't seemed a leap to believe the aircraft destroyed - but what if, she wasn't? What if somehow she'd avoided the impact? Could she have survived? Where? Why hadn't the Sikorsky's scans picked her up?

Abruptly, cold reality slammed into her -

_Because they weren't supposed to._

If Van der Berg had thought there'd be the slightest chance of them going after Hawke and Airwolf, he'd have done his best to thwart it. The likelihood in fact, had been Airwolf would be hit, would go down - and whether in pieces or as a whole, she'd have a lot of secrets for him to prise out of her. And knowing Hawke - which she had no reason to think Van der Berg didn't, after all Thor'd been involved - he would've done his best to drag her out of it as unscathed as possible.

Equal parts of relief and horror staggered her. Actually, the odds were good Airwolf had survived, and the possibility Hawke with her, and if that were the case…

Stumbling, she reached for Michael's hand, guilt nearly felling her. Devastated brown eyes searched his even as she clung to his hand with a death grip. "Grief, Michael," she whispered horrified. "Hawke might be alive and we left him in Van der Berg's hands. Him and Airwolf."

Wrapping his arm around her waist, Michael helped her into his chair, before she fell down as the implications hit her.

Reaching across the desk, he hit the buzzer for the intercom. "Lauren, get Seb and Rivers up here immediately - we have an emergency." Waiting, he braced his hands on the desk easing the weight on his aching leg and the pounding in his temples. There was no doubt they'd dropped the ball on this one. He only hoped Hawke and red Star wouldn't be the ones paying the price for their mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

_"You always knew where to find trouble, Hawke. Or was it trouble always knew where to find you?"_

* * *

Staring at the sleek, dark green Sikorsky gleaming dimly in the light, the words echoed faintly in Cait's head. Had it really been so long ago she'd said them?

The Sikorsky wasn't Airwolf, but she had the same deadly, predatory lines, destined to wreak havoc and destruction. She wondered if she wasn't following in his footsteps, Roper right beside her. Seemed one didn't have to be a Hawke by blood to find trouble, though it didn't hurt, she thought looking at the younger man who stood beside her. Tawny hair and sky blue eyes, he looked so much like String had all those years ago when their paths had crossed in Pope County, Texas.

Hawke's son, she thought idly. Hawke's son in breath, in word and deed - and here she was dragging him in to this quagmire. What right did she have?

"You don't have to go," she whispered.

Startled, the sky blue eyes pinned her, the gaze piercing.

Cait tried again. "It's not your fight, Roper. Stay here. Just because I dealt myself in on this hand doesn't mean you have to."

He scowled. Did she honestly think he could just walk away? He might not have wanted this battle, might not have the faith she did, but if Cait went then so did he. "Yeah, Cait," he replied. "I have to go. It's my fight as much as it is yours. He was my father and you're family."

* * *

"They take the bait?" Van der Berg demanded, looking at the printout in his hand.

The slighter man smiled, though it might have been a grimace. He handed over pictures of the burning destruction to the doctor. "Just like you said," he smirked. "Archangel should be on his way back to Red Star, if he isn't already there and Airwolf is down. The only glitch in the plan is Thor got himself killed."

"How?" Van der Berg asked in surprise.

"Briggs shot him," the man answered succinctly. "Seems he didn't take very kindly to him manhandling a certain female spy."

Van der Berg hissed out an irritated breath between his teeth. Trust that stupid fool to not follow the plan. Did he have to think for everybody?

"Take his body out and dump it," he snarled. "He's caused me enough headaches as it is."

Straczynski nodded, turning to go.

A second later, Van der Berg's harsh voice cracked like a whip across his back. "And while you're at it, Straczynski, get a contingent of men out to the east quadrant. I have a helicopter out there somewhere, that's going to need a little work."

"Yes, sir," Straczynski replied. "And Hawke? What do you want done with him if he's still alive?"

Van der Berg's ice blue eyes met his, glittering with delight. "Prep the quarters, just in case," he said. "Maybe, if we're lucky we'll have ourselves a guest."

* * *

Drawing a dazed, trembling hand up to his head Stringfellow Hawke wiped away a smear of blood. Blast, but his head hurt. He couldn't remember it ever pounding this bad, ...except maybe that time his chopper had been shot down over in 'Nam. Dizzy, he closed his eyes.

Pain roiled through his stomach, making his nauseous. His vision blurring and his whole body aching with the effort, he reached up for the heavy grey-black helmet he wore, endeavoring to drag it off. Grunting, he finally shoved it off; the effort making him dizzy again, even as his fingers quested into the new fissure running along the side of it.

Squinting, he peered at it. For the life of him, he couldn't tell what was wrong with his right eye, but what he saw with the other one persuaded him he was darn lucky to even be here, much less whining about a headache.

A crack about a quarter inch wide ran the length of the helmet, starting above the right temple. Vaguely, he remembered the shudder of the starboard engine taking a hit and the heart-stopping battle it'd been to keep the Lady in the air, the stick fighting him every step of the way.

He'd somehow managed to keep her aloft long enough to dump the armaments, knowing if she hit armed to the teeth as she was, both of them would've been blown straight to kingdom come.

The rolling explosion that'd ensued almost killing him, had ironically saved his life, the blazing inferno drawing away a heat-seeking Agile missile at the last minute.

He'd guess that was when the Lady had finally slammed down. Things got a little fuzzy after that point for him. Grimly, he figured the chances were good he had a concussion - not that the knowledge did him much good.

Tossing the damaged helmet into the co-pilot's seat left-handed, he reached for the cockpit door. The fact Airwolf was down and he had no idea where the others were, left him with a much bigger problem.

How was he going to get himself and the Lady out of here?

Dragging himself upright, blood still seeping into his right eye from the slashing cut above and through his brow, he staggered out of the downed helicopter. Even as he swung the cockpit door open, cradling an aching head in his hands, he heard a sound at his back that told him he wasn't alone. Reeling, he whirled, nearly falling, his vision blurring once again. Dazed he met his attacker.

The barrel of an AK-47 pointed straight at his chest.

Neat feral teeth gleamed in the afternoon sun. "So glad you could join us, Mr. Hawke."

* * *

Kenneth Van der Berg paced the confines of the hanger around him, eyeing the battle scarred black and white helicopter in front of him with a gleeful eye. The loss of Thor before he'd been able to put the man into play as part of his plan had been disappointing, but the trade off of knowing he had Archangel in place and possession of the sleek, black rotary wing aircraft known as Airwolf was more than compensation enough. The fact he had Stringfellow Hawke on top of it all, was just icing on the cake.

Cold amusement lit his eyes as he glanced at the angry pilot. There was no doubt Hawke was hot at the reception he'd received. Eyeing Katsulas shoving him forward with the barrel of the gun he held, Van der Berg frowned, wondering how much his men had further roughed up the pilot in getting him here. Swaying on his feet, it didn't look like he'd be flying anything any time soon.

He shrugged in disgust. He didn't really need Hawke, not that they knew it. In his current shape he wouldn't be much good to anybody. Still, he mused there might be some amusement to be had out of the deal…

"Nice of you to bring my bird in, in such good shape, Hawke," he taunted.

Sharp, blue eyes narrowed angrily at the comment, but String said nothing.

Laughing, the man smirked. "Now Hawke, that's no kind of attitude to take. I was merely paying you a compliment. Not many people would've fared as well with my Haversham as you did. You can't help it if your reaction time isn't quite what it used to be. I understand that."

Hawke shrugged off Katsulas' restraining hand even as he fought the fuzziness that pressed in at him around the edges. "Call off your dogs, Van der Berg and we'll see how over the hill I am," he snarled staggering forward, clearly defiant.

Amused, the man grinned. Hawke was obviously in no shape to go toe to toe with him, yet even now he was spitting imprecations in defense of his beloved Airwolf. He could hardly wait to see what the man thought when he found out his plans for her and his friends at Red Star were.

His gaze shifted. Straczynski held a gun to Hawke's jaw. Even as he watched, a muscle leapt in it, belying his fury. He frowned. If he wasn't careful he'd overplay his hand now and miss out on his audience for later.

He sighed. What Straczynski lacked in intelligence, he more than made up for in loyalty. If Hawke made any sudden moves in his direction, he didn't doubt Straczynski would have any compunctions whatsoever about shooting him.

Abruptly wearying of the game, he glared at his man. "Take him back to his cell," he snapped. Nodding, Straczynski abruptly cuffed Hawke behind the ear, sending him to his knees with a groan. Katsulas and Johnson stepped forward and grabbing the battered pilot under the arms, hauling him out between the two of them.

Van der Berg straightened watching them go. With any luck he'd be able to destroy the Firm, Archangel and Hawke in one fell blow. Not to mention making himself a very wealthy man in the process.

Yes, he certainly had to admit, it was turning out much better than he'd even hoped for.

* * *

Jade slapped a folder down on the desk with a frustrated hiss, raking a swatch of dark ebony hair out of her eyes. "Remind me, Marella of what we're looking for."

Looking up at the younger woman, Marella frowned. "There's got to be something there, Jade. A man doesn't just change overnight."

The amerasian agent snorted. "You so sure about that?" Irritably, she reached for the stack of notes in front of her.

Marella paused, eyeing her friend. "Why do I get the feeling we're not talking about Thor here, Jade?"

"You're kidding yourself if you think a man can't change overnight," Jade retorted bitterly.

"Really?" Marella queried, carefully non-committal.

Jade simply sighed, grabbing another folder. "Well, let's put it this way. I once would've agreed with you - these days I'm not so sure."

A worried furrow crossed the beautiful agent's face as she contemplated how much she should pry into her friend's private affairs. Come to think of it though, she hadn't seen much of Seb around in recent days, and she would've thought if anything he and Jade would've been sticking closer than usual together considering the events of the recent weeks.

She flipped through the folder she held, only idly scanning the contents as she did so. "You and Seb okay, Jade?" she queried. "Tell me if I'm overstepping my bounds, but…I know it's been a tough couple weeks and…"

Jade frowned bowing her head, dark hair falling like a curtain around her. Exasperated, she tossed the half-finished file back onto the desk with a frustrated sigh. "No, you're not overstepping, Marella. I just wish I had some answers for you."

"What do you mean?" the other asked with the sick feeling, she really didn't want to know.

Jade twisted slender fingers together, her unease apparent. "After the …uh, memorial for Hawke…we went back to his condo at the beach."

"And?" the other woman encouraged.

Jade raised tear-filled, glittering eyes to meet her friend's. "He said what we had was a mistake. That he was a fool for getting involved with me."

"Oh, Jade…"

"Pretty much kicked me to the curb," she laughed bitterly. "Wasn't expecting that one, not from him…"

Marella set her own cup of coffee down, gathering the younger woman into her arms. "Shh-hh, sweetie. You know he didn't mean it."

Jade sniffed inelegantly, reaching up to scrub at her damp cheeks. "No, Marella," she muttered. "If there's one thing I'm pretty sure of - he meant it."

The café au lait skinned woman stroked a comforting hand through her hair. "Jade he's just lost his brother, you'd been recently shot. He only just realized what it is you do for a living. It's different if it's what you do, versus what the one you love does. It had to have hit him hard."

"Maybe," the amerasian woman whispered, "but I think he meant it."

"Jade…" Marella protested.

Impatiently, Jade shrugged loose. "Forget it, Marella. It's done. Seb's made up his mind, he's made his choice."

"But…"

Jade reached across the desk, picking up the file folder once again. "It's done, Marella," she said biting back tears. "Now, I think we better get back to trying to find out what Thor was up to, don't you?"

Shifting on the desk, the slender, dusky-skinned woman heaved a heavy sigh. "Yeah," she murmured, but she sure wasn't smiling.

* * *

Rotors sweeping the lake below, the red, white and blue jet ranger flared hard, settling to land with a heavy thud on the dock below.

"You really think Cait went after String?" Jo asked, looking over at Saint John with concern.

He glanced at his wife, wondering where this latest turn of events would leave them. "Yeah, Jo. I do," he muttered grimly.

"Surely she knows better, Saint John," the blonde argued. "Michael wouldn't have lied to us, and even if he did Seb and Roper were there."

"Have you ever known something as simple as mere facts to have ever stopped either Cait or String?" Saint John tossed back.

"What are you saying?" Jo demanded.

The blonde pilot scowled. "If Cait thinks String is alive, right or wrong, she will go after him. Period."

The slender woman raised worried blue eyes to meet his. "Yeah, but Sinj, even she surely knows the odds are he's dead. It's a horrible risk to take not knowing!"

The rangy pilot's lips thinned, as he thought about all the times his brother had done the same for him on no more than a rumor. "Yeah, it is," he murmured. "I just wish…"

Jo looked at him in horror picking up on his thoughts. "You aren't saying what I think you're saying, Saint John Hawke!"

The hazel eyes were decidedly stormy as he hung the headset above him, and swung open the cockpit door. "Yeah, Jo. I am. String's my brother. If there's the slightest chance he's alive I would've gone to hell and back to get him, with or without Cait. I owe him that much."

Hooking her own headset on the peg above her, Jo frowned, trying to shove away the fear that clutched at her heart watching him go. Suddenly, she had a feeling that this was far from over for any of them. Shivering, she headed up the dock to the cabin.


	5. Chapter 5

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Michael tossed his glasses on the desk and dropped his head into his hands in defeat. Caitlin and Roper had left hours ago and still Marella and Jade hadn't come up with any new news concerning Thor. Thirty years in the business tended to make one a cynic, but he still had a hard time seeing Thor being bought out. He hadn't much liked the man or his methods, but he'd been company all the way.

Groaning, he rubbed his temples. Blasted headache, he'd had it for three days now and it only seemed to be getting worse. Probably stress, he figured, between losing the closest friend he had and now hearing Van der Berg might be readying to use Airwolf against the Firm, even the angel he was nicknamed after would've been pulling his hair out by now.

Digging through the desk, he fished out the bottle of painkillers he'd kept there over the years for when the pain in his leg simply became too much to bear. Grimacing, he dumped two into his hand realizing the bottle was now empty and he was going to have to head down to the clinic for more. Great. He reached across the desk for a glass of amber-colored whiskey, downing them in a single gulp, the fire of the liquid burning a trail down to his gut as he did so.

Well, at least Marella hadn't been here to see it, he mused, knowing the lecture she'd have given him for mixing the alcohol and the painkillers. Unfortunately, the two were the only thing keeping the pain at bay enough for him to function. He could only pray they came up with something in time to help Cait, or he'd likely have another couple deaths on his conscience.

* * *

Blinking, String rolled to his knees with a groan, feeling the cold, damp feel of concrete against his cheek. He had no idea how long he'd been here, it could've been minutes or days for all he could tell. "Guess this just proves I still know how to find trouble," he muttered, spitting a mouthful of blood out where Johnson had obliged him after a particularly snotty comment about the man's parentage. It'd been worth it though, to get a look at the papers on the man's desk.

Staggering, he made it to his feet, grasping the bars beside him in a white-knuckle grip. Upright, he clung there, resting his forehead against the clammy, cool feeling of the steel. Blessedly, it seemed to ease the bongo drums in his head for a moment and he opened his eyes again.

It proved to be a mistake between the blinding light from the window and the spinning in his head. Abruptly, his stomach rebelled and he was forced to scramble for the stainless steel commode in the corner as his body made it's displeasure known. Finally, wretched and weary beyond belief, he leaned against the dank concrete walls of his cell. "Yeah," he mumbled, cradling his head against a dirty and scraped palm, "definitely a concussion."

* * *

"Any new news yet?" Rivers questioned Seb, as the younger pilot bent over the engines of the new rotary wing aircraft the Firm had been testing before the latest crisis. A variation of a Sikorsky airframe and Airwolf's weaponry prowess, the Raven was a nasty looking bird even if she lacked Airwolf's speed.

Every bit as maneuverable, and even more heavily armed, she could probably wreak every bit as much damage and destruction as Hawke's bird. The lack of mach capability had been heavily debated within the committee when the project had been on the drawing board, finally being voted down as impractical and an unnecessary expense as there were only a handful of pilots out there who could fly her at that speed and make the transition from turbos to rotors without crashing her. Airwolf didn't even deploy weapons at that speed, Thor had felt compelled to remind them, having to drop back to engage combat mode, a mere 300 knots per hour.

The Raven topped that at 350 knots per hour, making her more maneuverable than Airwolf in close quarters and potentially even more deadly.

"Huh?" Seb asked, raising a blonde head and peering down at Rivers below. "You say something, Mike?"

"I said, are you about done up there?" he replied, thinking better of his earlier question, grateful he seemed to lack his older brother's uncanny hearing. Maybe no news was a good thing. If Michael was right and Airwolf had survived the explosion he didn't particularly relish the idea of going up against her in battle, especially if Van der Berg had gotten control of Hawke as well. He couldn't imagine Seb was looking forward to the experience any more than he was.

Seb sighed, wiping his hands on a grease rag. "Yeah, I guess." He paused for a long moment before continuing. "You really think String could be alive, Mike?" he asked, consternation marring his boyish features.

Rivers frowned. So he hadn't avoided the bullet after all. "I don't know, Seb," he replied soberly. "I wouldn't have thought so, but Marella's argument does make sense. The fact she's even making it means it's a definite possibility.

Hawke has gotten himself out of some pretty hairy situations in the past. Ones I wouldn't have thought possible."

"So you think Van der Berg will come for Red Star using Airwolf?" Seb demanded, leveling dark blue eyes at Rivers' face.

Mike rubbed his hand against his stubbled chin, wondering if he looked as rough as he felt. He didn't like it, but he wasn't going to lie to String's baby brother either. "Yeah, Seb. I think he will. If he can get her in the air, he'll be coming."

"And String?" the question hung like the sword of Damocles, there in the air.

"He'll stop him - if he can. If not, it'll be up to us," he warned. "No matter what the cost."

Seb flinched. He wasn't sure he could shoot his brother down. But by the same token, he knew he couldn't live with his brother destroying everyone he knew and loved at Red Star. He didn't think String would be able to either.

So this was what they meant by damned if you do, and damned if you didn't.

* * *

Pacing down the empty, tiled corridors of the long abandoned air base, Kenneth Van der Berg grinned. Everything was going according to plan, and now that the repair crew down below had finally gained access to Airwolf's onboard computer systems that she had damaged in the crash, and the schematics contained within, progress should pick up.

It already looked like she'd be ready for the ball. He could hardly wait to see the look on Archangel's face when he realized his prize possession was back to destroy him.

* * *

Slumping over Marella's desk, Jade drummed weary fingers across its surface as she skimmed through another folder. For the umpteenth time, she wished somebody would've dragged the head of the committee kicking and screaming into the twentieth century.

Behind her a claxion alarm sounded, startling and nearly causing her to upend her cup of coffee. "What the…?" she muttered, slopping it down to the desk and spinning around.

Marella was already there, nearly running her over as she rushed across the room in a swish of cream-colored skirts and fingers clattering over the keyboard.

Worried, Jade sprang to her feet, hurrying to join her. "What's wrong?" she demanded breathlessly.

The female spy didn't answer, curly dark hair tumbling forwards as she intently punched keys, changed screens and pulled up maps on the monitor in front of her. Frantic in her haste that she might loose the signal before she pinpointed its location.

"Marella?" Jade queried, starting to get really concerned at her continued silence now. "What gives?"

Never once looking up from the monitor, the dusky-skinned woman grinned. "Nothing, everything."

Completely perplexed, Jade scowled, a frown furrowing her forehead. "Marella, you've got to give me more than that! What's going on?" she demanded.

Finishing the last keystroke with a flourish, Marella leaned back against the console with a self-satisfied smile and beamed at the younger woman, even as she crossed her arms cockily in front of her. "Okay, okay," she laughed, "I will."

"Well?"

"That was Airwolf's ELT - an emergency crash locating beacon," she explained.

"And?" Jade questioned.

"Well, it should've gone off when she and Hawke went down," Marella elaborated. "When it didn't that was yet another reason we figured she'd been destroyed."

"Okay…" Jade returned cautiously. "But if that's the case, why now?"

"Well, like I said," Marella replied. "It should've gone off on its own automatically. It was triggered manually."

"And this means?"

"I'm hoping it means Hawke's alive," Marella enthused. "Maybe it was damaged and its taken him this long to get it up and transmitting again, maybe he was hurt and unable to until now. That was one reason I was so afraid I'd lose the signal before I pinpointed the location."

Questioning green eyes met Marella's brown ones. "And did you pinpoint its location?"

The grin was huge. "Yeah, Jade. I sure did."

* * *

Light seeped in around the edges of his consciousness, cold, hard and unforgiving. With a weary groan, Hawke fought it. Every bone in his body ached, pain pressing in and clawing at him. Darkness pulled at him, promising him rest and sleep, relief from the unrelenting pain in his head.

It was a false promise and he knew it. Knew it, but didn't care. Closing bleary eyes against the pain, he gave in, letting the darkness roll over him.

* * *

_The wind blew off the lake, an eagle soaring overhead, her cry lonely and haunting on the wind. Nicky sat on the end of the dock alone. Heavy footsteps echoed down the length of the dock, and he knew without looking it was Saint John._

_"Nicky, it's time to come in," he said softly. "Your mom'll be worried."_

_Angry blue eyes stared defiantly out at the choppy lake as the skies greyed. "I'm not going. She knows where to find me."_

_Saint John sighed. "He's not coming back, Nicky."_

_Dark blue eyes as stormy as the skies above, searched the clouds for the eagle. "He promised," he snarled, the fury hiding the pain that clogged his throat._

_"Yeah," Saint John whispered. "I know. But sometimes we make promises we can't keep, buddy."_

_"Not my dad!" Nicky retorted, but it was evident there were tears in his voice now. Heavy, fat drops of rain hit the wood planking around him splattering. Saint John ducked his head against the cold wetness running down his collar as he knelt beside the boy._

_"Yeah," he whispered huskily, feeling his own eyes fill with tears. "Even sometimes, your dad."_

_Grief and fury tore at the boy, and he swung out at the older man._

_Saint John absorbed the blow without a word, gathering the sobbing boy into his muscular arms as he did so. Rising, he lifted String's son carrying him in towards the cabin._

* * *

"No!"The word rasped harshly from Hawke's lips, as the blue eyes blearily flew open. "I made a promise, and I intend to keep it." There was no way he was leaving his son, or daughter alone as his parents had left him and Saint John. "No way," he muttered, fighting the clawing darkness. Van der Berg might take Airwolf from him, but there was no way he was taking him from his kids and Cait. Van der Berg had another thing coming if he thought he were.

Trembling hands slid under him, palms scraping the concrete as he did so. He forced his good eye open, blinking against the tears that clouded the other. "Come and get me, Van der Berg," he snarled, shoving to his feet. "Come and get me."


	6. Chapter 6

The radio crackled to life in front of Cait, startling her. "Angel 1, Angel 1 this is Red Star. Do you read?"

Surprised, Caitlin turned startled blue-green eyes to Roper. They were far enough out she wouldn't have thought to have heard anything from Marella. Hadn't really expected to.

Next to her, Roper shrugged. "Answer it," he mouthed.

Quirking an eyebrow at Hawke's son, Cait reached for the radio switch. "Red Star, this is Angel 1. We copy. Go ahead."

Marella's voice came across the speakers tinny, but pleased. "Cait, we've got news. Airwolf's ELT has been triggered."

Swallowing, Cait fought the surge of almost hysterical relief that bubbled up in her throat. Her hands trembled at the stick and she felt the Sikorsky wobble before Roper's hands settled over the controls, steadying them. "Any message from String?" she whispered, greedy for news.

"No," Marella answered regretfully. "Just the ELT. But it was triggered manually and we have no reason to think Van der Berg would have a cause to do so."

Caitlin nodded blinking back tears, forgetting for a moment the other woman couldn't see her as she did so.

Heaving a steadying breath, Roper threw a glance over at Cait as he answered. "Thanks, Marella." He fought the sense of disappointment in his own chest as he did so. What she said made sense, but it didn't keep him from hoping, wishing for more. "Anything else?" he queried.

"Actually yes," the assistant deputy director answered, "there is. Rivers and Jade found new info in Thor's files. It seems Van der Berg was one of ours. We knew him as Anthony Cavelli."

"What??" he demanded. "But how…?"

"About five years ago, he got caught in a weapon's exchange with the Iraqi's. The committee in charge was forced to disavow any knowledge of involvement and cut him loose."

"Forced?" Roper rasped disdainfully. "Or chose?" His view of politics wasn't much different than Hawke's.

"Look Roper, I don't make the rules," Marella retorted. "For the record, a lot of the time I don't even like the rules. But that's the way the game's played."

Reining in her own chaotic thoughts, Cait laid a warning hand on the younger man's arm.

He hissed an irritated breath out through his teeth. "Okay, I get your point, Marella. Go on."

He heard a heavy sigh on the other end. "Anyway, the Iraqi's snagged his wife and daughter. To this day, I don't know what they were doing in country."

"And?" Cait prodded, knowing she wasn't going to like the rest of this.

"The wife and daughter were tortured to death in front of him. There's some allusion in Thor's notes that the wife was raped. It took them a long time to die, Cait. Hours and hours, and he witnessed it all. The little girl finally bled out.

The clean up crew that finally arrived on the scene got him out. I had twenty year veterans who were sick at the scene."

"Geesh," Roper whispered, his eyes going to Caitlin. She swallowed convulsively.

_This was the man who had Hawke?_

Traitorously, he fought down the thought he couldn't blame him, wondering what it must be like to watch your wife and child die, because some faceless bureaucrat had decided you weren't worth saving.

Marella continued unrelentingly. "Because of this, he feels justified in destroying the Firm, and what better way than using their own weapons against them - Airwolf and Archangel."

"By controlling Michael, he could destroy the Firm from within, taking any credibility we have as a government agency. With Airwolf and Hawke he gets wholesale destruction and revenge."

"But Michael's okay, isn't he?" Cait broke in.

Marella paused, the silence telling. When she finally spoke, the words were hesitant. "I don't know Cait, I'd like to think so, but….there's an awful lot we don't know about the mind control drugs they had him on, and he's still having headaches. And there's a lot of things that have gone missing from his office files in the past couple weeks. At first, I thought it was the after effects of getting captured, Hawke's death, maybe depression, but now…Now, I'm not so sure."

"I know he's trying to hide it from me, to keep me from worrying, but there are blackouts, spaces in his memory he can't account for."

Roper winced, realizing the position this placed her in. "So, you're relieving him of duty?" he asked gruffly, feeling for her. Van der Berg's revenge might not only cost Hawke his life, but Michael his as well.

"No."

Stunned, Roper looked at Cait. It'd been a rhetorical question as far as he was concerned. "But Marella," he began, "you've got to."

"No, I don't," she argued rebelliously.

"But if you think Van der Berg's drugs have compromised him…" Cait reasoned.

The other woman's frustration telegraphed itself across the radio. "I don't know anything, Cait. I believe something's wrong, but it could be the fatigue, residual after effects from the drugs, stress, a lot of things. The fact remains Van der Berg will be coming for Red Star and I need Michael to help defend her."

"Even if Van der Berg's gotten to him?" Roper demanded.

"If Van der Berg's got Airwolf and Stringfellow Hawke, yes. I don't believe there's any way Seb and Rivers will be able to take her down on their own, even with the Raven."

Cait's horrified gaze flew to her step-son's. "You're planning on using Seb, Rivers and Archangel to take down Airwolf?"

The other woman's tone was anguished. It was obvious she knew what the cost to all of them might be. "Yes, Cait, if I have to, I will."

Caitlin felt the trembling begin again, threatening to suck her under, wash her away.

Roper's strong hands took hold of the controls, rolling the Sikorsky left and on towards the co-ordinates of the crash site. His jaw tightened as he did so, a muscle ticking in his lean, chiseled features.

Marella signed off, giving Caitlin the co-ordinates of the ELT. "Good luck, Cait," she whispered. "I hope you can find them in time."

* * *

Heavy booted treads echoed down the corridor, pausing outside the 9 x 9 cell that Stringfellow Hawke was calling home these days. Straczynski smirked, the thin line slashing across his features as he took in Hawke's lean form with a self-satisfied grin. So this was the great Stringfellow Hawke, he thought humorlessly, that Van der Berg and Thor had so disdained.

"Hm-mph. You don't look like much to me," he taunted, eyeing the other pilot with condescension.

Hawke raised his head, the longer brownish fringe falling across his forehead where it had matted and stuck with the blood from the cut in his brow. The good blue eye narrowed defiantly as he glared at the other man. "Funny, I was just about to say the same thing about you," he retorted tauntingly.

Straczynski's jaw hardened. "On your feet, Hawke."

"Or what? You'll make me?" the pilot threw back mockingly. "Nonetheless, he rose, lacing his fingers behind his head when the other motioned for him to lift his hands.

Prodding him, the other man led him down the hall at gunpoint. Paper hero or not, it'd be interesting to see how he handled Van der Berg. Personally, he didn't envy him.

* * *

"What do you mean Thor wasn't a traitor?" Seb ranted, tossing a wrench into the tool box at his elbow. "I think using Archangel against the Firm, kidnapping Marella and trying to destroy String and Airwolf qualifies, Rivers."

Raking grimy hands on his overalls, Mike reached for the wrench Seb had just abandoned, tweaking the bolt beneath his fingers. "Well, I admit it looks pretty bad…" he began.

"Looks bad!" Seb retorted in disbelief. "What planet are you living on Mike?"

"Okay, okay," Rivers placated. "Looks plenty bad. But Seb, look at it how he did. The sacrifice of one man to capture Van der Berg and save Red Star would've seemed acceptable to him."

"We're talking about a man with almost thirty years working for the Firm. Loyal years, Rivers. The job cost him relationships, friends, co-workers, almost his daughter and his leg. Seems kinda harsh to throw him to the wolves in my book," Seb threw back.

"I'm not saying it isn't, Seb," the rakish blonde-haired pilot returned. "But surely you see where he might have deemed it an acceptable risk."

"Acceptable risk," the younger man retorted. "You sound as politically correct as all the rest of them, Mike. Never figured you to be the big company man buying the PR line."

"Give it a rest, Seb." Rivers growled, losing patience with the younger man. "He did what he thought he had to do."

Angry now, Seb levered his weight against the wrench he held, trying to loosen a stubborn nut. It slipped, raking him across the knuckles and drawing blood. He yelped in pain, slinging the wrench down. "So far as I'm concerned Mike, Thor was a traitor, a sell-out! He turned his back on those who fought to defend the same things he did."

"So, what're you going to call it if Airwolf shows up on our doorstep breathing hell and damnation, Seb?" Mike demanded. Rivers had a slow fuse, but it was well and truly lit now. "Are you going to let Van der Berg use Hawke and Airwolf to take out Red Star? To kill the people you work with? To take out Jade? Watch her die before your eyes?"

Furious, Seb faced off against his friend. "Back off Mike," he snarled, "and leave her out of this!"

"Why?" Rivers taunted. "You need to know Van der Berg sure as heck won't."

Losing the battle with his temper, Seb lunged for Mike, the weight of his body slamming them both down to the concrete floor. Rivers rolled them at the last instant, both of them taking the force of the blow on their sides.

Gasping for air, he shoved his forearm up against Seb's throat pinning him and cutting off his air. "You better get your head in the game, Hawke," he rasped. "I don't like it any better than you, but if you aren't willing to pull that trigger if and when String and Airwolf show up on our doorstep, then you have no business flying that helicopter."

Stepping through the stairwell door, files in hand Jade raised her eyes from the computer printouts she held. "Mike! Seb!" she yelled, dropping files everywhere and throwing herself into the fight. Seething she endeavored to haul Rivers off Seb's slighter form. The man pinned him with an extra twenty pounds and as many years fighting experience.

"What the heck are you two doing?" she panted. "Last I checked, we were all supposed to be on the same side!"

Rolling free, Seb gained his feet breathing hard, his hands on his knees as he struggled for air.

Shoving to his own feet, Rivers eyed the youngest Hawke brother warily. Crap, he was getting too old for this, he thought. At the rate things were going, String's kid was going to be whipping his tail next.

The thought of String sobered him immediately. There was no way he wanted to face down his friend and rival of all these years, but Seb had to be made to understand the stakes - there was no one left to face off against Hawke and Airwolf if Van der Berg had turned them, except them.

Seb raised hostile blue eyes to face both of them, scowling. His face softened at the sight of Jade, her hair mussed and her cheek scratched from the scuffle and abruptly he knew Mike was right. This was nothing compared to what Airwolf would do if she were used against Red Star, and there was no reason to think it would stop there. It was entirely possible Van der Berg might well come after their families as well.

No, Mike was right. He had to be stopped - no mater what the cost. The blue eyes were tear-filled and the mouth hard as he faced his friend. "You win, Rivers," he muttered. "You got yourself a co-pilot."

* * *

Van der Berg stood beside the sleek, shark like aircraft eyeing the repairs underway. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Johnson keeping a watchful eye on the repair crew. Unfortunately, it hadn't been watchful enough earlier and the fools had managed to trigger a silent ELT device on the aircraft. The man who'd made the "mistake" had paid with his life.

The sound of footsteps tickled his ear, and he turned to see Straczynski prodding Hawke along the corridor towards him.

Coldly analytical he eyed the pilot. He looked steadier today, not staggering on his feet nearly as badly. The jaw was hard, the stance rigid as he covered the ground between them, it required no effort to tell the pilot was furious. How Hawke had ever made it as a covert agent for Michael he had no idea, the man all too clearly telegraphed his emotions despite the impassive mask he wore. Or perhaps, it was he simply didn't care if Van der Berg knew he was angry?

Ice blue eyes lit with amusement. Yes, he had a feeling that was it. Hawke had a reputation for being blunt and to the point - not long on the niceties. He probably wouldn't care that Van der Berg knew given a chance he'd gladly rip his heart out.

A self-satisfied smile twisted his lips. The honesty was refreshing - didn't mean he'd return it, of course, but he could appreciate it.

"Mr. Hawke," he greeted the other. "So glad you could make it."

"Didn't seem like I had a lot of choice," String rasped sardonically as he eyed the gun Straczynski held on him.

Van der Berg quirked an amused eyebrow. "Well, I suppose not," he allowed dryly, waving the other man away.

Shifting the automatic, Straczynski took a step back, lowering the gun.

Hawke had no illusions if he made a move towards Van der Berg, he'd be more than happy to fill him fuller of holes than swiss cheese.

His gaze shot over to Airwolf on the other side of the hanger, fighting down a wince as he saw an overall clad man visibly wrench out her electronics and pull them away wires dangling.

Spotting the look on his face, Van der Berg laughed. "Do not worry, Mr. Hawke. She suffered massive electronic failure in the crash. We will put her back like you had her - more or less."

Hawke's eyes narrowed, wondering if there'd be anything left of the original ship by the time they finished. He forced his mind back to the task at hand, knowing there was nothing he could do about the helicopter at the moment.

"So talk Van der Berg," Hawke bit out. "I doubt you brought me here to oversee your repair efforts."

"True," the man smirked. "Your reputation was always that of a hotshot pilot, not a mechanic."

Hawke shifted quietly, taking the veiled insult in silence.

The other man sighed, disappointed he hadn't risen to the bait. "I have a job for you."

"I've already got a job," String retorted. "Thanks."

Van der Berg's gaze hardened, unamused. "Perhaps, you'll reconsider when you hear the terms."

"Doubt it," he fired back succinctly.

Tamping down his rising ire, Van der Berg glared at the pilot. "I really don't think you have much of a choice, Mr. Hawke."

Hawke snorted rudely. "Right."

Rage clouded Van der Berg's judgement. "I will destroy Red Star with you and Archangel and Airwolf. I just thought perhaps you might like a chance to say goodbye to your family before I did so!" he spat.

Startled, Hawke's gaze flew to his. "What do you mean?" he demanded, lunging forward grabbing a fistful of the man's shirt. Dimly he registered the click of a gun at his back. He didn't let go, instead shaking the man viciously. "Give, Van der Berg!" he yelled. "Or so help me, I'll kill you right here," he hissed.

He registered the twitch in Van der Berg's eyes the second before the gun butt came slamming down, catching him across the ribs. Sucking air, gasping, he hit the ground on his knees, the shirt material sliding through his fingers.

Chest heaving, he fought for breath as the second blow hit.

Kenneth Van der Berg calmly stepped away, straightening his shirt. "In the future, Mr. Hawke," he said disdainfully, "you might want to contain yourself. I'm really not very fond of those who work for me assaulting me."

"I…don't…work for…you," Hawke panted.

"Ah, but there's where you're wrong, Mr. Hawke," the man chuckled. "You most certainly do."

Waving his hands, he motioned for Katsulas and Straczynski to take the downed man back to his cell.

Grabbing a fistful of hair, Katsulas roughly drug Hawke to his feet, as Straczynski grabbed the other arm. Between the two of them, they hauled him upright and towards the door.

They'd made it only a couple feet when Van der Berg spoke again.

"I'll be sure and convey your apologies to your wife and son."

Hawke wrenched his head up, staggering. "What the heck are you talking about?" he demanded, dark blue eye bright with fear.

"Oh, did I forget to tell you?" Van der Berg sneered. "There's a Sikorsky inbound. It would appear they're headed our way."

Struggling, Hawke cursed, trying to break free.

The other man smiled, death and damnation in his eyes. "Don't worry about it, Hawke. I'll convey your regrets." He turned to Johnson, over his shoulder. "Put the Haversham back online."


	7. Chapter 7

Caitlin's hands settled over the controls of the Sikorsky. "Gimme guns," she muttered.

"Cait, String took out every gun within ten miles of Van der Berg's base last time," Roper protested.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," she rejoined. "Just humor me, okay?"

Reaching over, Roper brought the guns online, shrugging. "It's your show, Cait."

"Thanks," she retorted dryly. "You're all heart."

He shrugged, "I try."

She shot him a startled look, blue-green eyes wide.

He grinned unrepentantly.

Watching him, Cait felt her own lips twitch, even as she shook her head. Was this what Hawke would've been like if it weren't for losing Saint John all those years ago? Seeing Gabrielle die? Working for Michael? Abruptly her heart ached for him, for the loss of what might have been.

Fighting back tears she swallowed, shoving away the memories of the times she'd held him, caught in the throes of some leftover dream of Vietnam and the horrors suffered there, or a mission gone bad, his body shaking and quivering in her arms. The heartbreaking sobs wrenching her from sleep, threatening to drown him.

Eyeing radar with a jaundiced eye, Roper scowled. Cait was right. This was shaking up to be too easy. Surely, if Van der Berg had Airwolf, he'd have planned for them in case they'd come after it, sought revenge. He raised questioning blue eyes from the instruments to look at her.

He was stunned at the stark pain in her face, raw and agonized, it took his breath away.

"Cait, are you okay?" he demanded.

Snatched from the memories, Caitlin met Hawke's son's eyes. String had had enough taken from him in this life, there was no way Van der Berg would be taking any more.

"Cait?" he questioned.

"I'm fine," she whispered, meeting his eyes with her own blue-green ones. The pain slid away in a look of fierce determination. "Let's go get Hawke."

* * *

Struggling, Hawke fought the hands that held him, Van der Berg's words ringing in his ears. Shoving him along, Straczynski's fingers tightened on his arm, hauling him along in his wake.

Pulling back, Hawke slammed his shoulder into the man, knocking them both to the ground, rolling to avoid the well-aimed shot Katsulas fired in his direction.

The first bullet went wide, tearing into the corridor wall behind him, the second missed him be mere inches as he slammed an elbow into Straczynski's face. Grunting and gasping they wrestled for the gun, Straczynski's weight and superior strength evenly matched by Hawke's adrenaline fed fear and desperation.

Grabbing for the gun Hawke's hand closed around it, grasping it as he rolled and fired, catching Katsulas twice in the chest as he did so.

The other man stumbled back, hitting the wall and sliding down in a smear of blood.

The reprieve was short lived as Straczynski nailed him with a hard back fist to the face, bloodying his nose and gaining back control of the weapon.

Half-blinded by blood and pain, Hawke fought once more for the gun, feeling his strength ebb with each rasping breath.

The gun slammed down across his temple, catching him just above the injured eye, opening up a new cut and streaming down fresh blood. Questing fingers reached for the gun, their grasp slippery with blood, both Hawke's and Straczynski's. String's fingers closed around the butt of the weapon pulling back on the trigger…

And then it was all over, the heavier man's weight slumping over him and pinning him to the floor. Numbly, the gun fell from Hawke's fingers, clattering to the floor beside him as he fought to breathe, exhaustion seeping through his body as quickly as the adrenaline faded. Shoving with what seemed to be the last of his strength, he rolled the other man's body off of him knowing the battle had barely begun.

If he didn't get Airwolf off the ground, or the Haversham screen down, none of it would matter.

* * *

Michael Coldsmith Briggs III paced the floor of Red Star, the throbbing in his leg keeping pace with the pain in his head. He reached for the glass of whiskey on the corner of his desk, praying it'd take the edge off the pain long enough for him to oversee the securing of Red Star.

All the non-essential personnel had already been evacuated, leaving only those necessary to protect her files and the building itself. Unease ate at him, knowing it well might not be enough to stop Van der Berg and he might be consigning far too many good men and women to their deaths.

Breaches in security had been showing up all day. Breaches that appeared to have come from the top. Anxiety ate at him, as he realized they might've come from Thor… or himself.

There were far too many gaps in his memory in the last couple weeks. Intelligence that had somehow gotten by him when Marella disappeared and spots he simply couldn't remember after Hawke and Airwolf had gone down.

Now he was left to wonder, was it he didn't remember because he didn't want to, or couldn't? Had Thor's betrayal not been the only one? Just what had he given Van der Berg?

Snatching the amber-liquid off the corner of his desk, he swallowed a gulp, feeling the fiery liquid burn a trail down his throat. In almost the same instant, he impatiently slammed it back down to the desk, as he turned rosewood cane in hand to head down to Marella's office. They needed to talk. It seemed the day had come for the assistant deputy director to take over the deputy director's job. If he could no longer trust his own judgment, he'd have to trust hers.

* * *

Together, Seb and Rivers placed the cowling back on the gunship, the green-black armored plating gleaming dully in the dimming afternoon light.

Rivers swiped at an almost invisible piece of dust on the nose of the helicopter with a well-worn rag.

"You think it'll be enough?" Seb asked, not raising his eyes from the panel in front of him.

Mike didn't bother to ask what it'd be enough for. There was only one thing on both of their minds at this point. "Don't know," he muttered succinctly. "Gotta try anyway."

Seb heaved a sigh, knowing he was right.

The silence stretched tight and uncomfortable between them, awkward as their friendship had become. Abruptly, Seb decided he'd had enough. If he was going to be facing dying today, he was going to do it with a clear conscience.

He tossed his grease rag to the hanger floor, as he turned to face Mike. "I owe you an apology," he began.

Rivers looked up, quirking an eyebrow. "Yeah, I suppose you do," he retorted.

Non-plussed, Seb grimaced. "You're not making this very easy, Mike," he grumbled.

"No, I suppose not," the blonde grinned, amusement lighting his eyes for the first time in days.

Raking an exasperated hand through his hair, Seb huffed in frustration.

This time, Rivers' grin broke through. "Forget it, Seb," he laughed. "You're no better at it than String. I know you didn't mean it."

"But…" he tried one last time.

Mike's hand clapped down on his shoulder. "Forget it, Seb. I mean it. I have. I know I was pushing you pretty hard. And your back's up against the wall. I just wish there was some other way."

Frowning, Seb nodded. "Well, just so as you know."

Rivers met his eyes. "I know, Seb. We're good."

Reaching down, he picked up his helmet. "Have you spoke to Jade?" he asked quietly.

Seb shook his head. "No, not yet."

Rivers hesitated, knowing he might be stepping on the younger man's toes, but after the last couple weeks he just couldn't let it go. "You know you need to, Seb."

The younger Hawke looked up at him, even as he fiddled with his flight gear. "Yeah, I know," he sighed. "I really botched that one up, huh?"

"Yeah, you did," Rivers agreed bluntly. "That's why it's up to you to fix it."

Overhead the claxion perimeter alarms started blaring, screaming their warning.

Shoving the helmet home, he leveled a steady blue glare at Seb. "And you might want to start making it a priority."

* * *

Anything on the monitors?" Cait asked tensely, eyeing the desolate landscape below.

Roper checked over the radar and instruments. "Nothing, Cait," he answered. He couldn't say what it was, but he was beginning to get a creeped out feeling himself. It was too easy, even considering the havoc Hawke had reaped. Either he'd reaped a more killing blow than all of them believed, or…

"It's a trap, Cait!" he yelled. "Get out, get out now!"

Startled, she swung the Sikorsky hard, banking and pointing her nose first back towards home.

Out of nowhere, just beyond the ridgeline four AH-64 Apache helicopters rose, armed to the teeth and loaded for bear.

Beside her, Roper bit off a curse. "We've got a problem, Cait," he rasped hoarsely.

"What, you think I can't see that?" she demanded, snapping back. Banking hard, she swung the Sikorsky back the way they'd just come.

"I thought we just decided that was a trap," Roper grated as he eyed the terrain flying by below. "What're you doing? Running?" he demanded.

"You got a better idea?" she retorted.

The furthermost helicopter swung after them in pursuit.

"No," he admitted, cringing as she swerved avoiding a sidewinder missile. It fell short, but it was obvious the distance between them was closing. "They're gaining!"

"I can see that," she muttered tersely. A rocky slope opened up before them, boulder strewn and barren.

Grabbing the stick, Cait swung the helicopter hard right, banking, and then swerving left. She shoved the throttle forward, sweeping the helicopter forward in nap of the earth flight.

"Watch it, Cait!" Roper warned. "We won't be any better off if you rack her up on the rocks below.

Rotors clearing the rocky overhang just barely, Cait grimaced at the strain in her arm as she fought to keep the helicopter in the air, swinging the tail hard left.

The Sikorsky swung on its own axis, her guns abruptly coming into range. Biding her time, Cait waited.

"They're almost on us," Roper warned, eyeing the quickly closing distance on radar uneasily.

Eyes on the sky above Cait said nothing, flaring the helicopter's nose and climbing abruptly. Hitting the trigger, she loosed a couple of Hellfire missiles.

The first hit the lead Apache as it came around the mountainside. The second went wide as the second helicopter swerved to avoid the explosion consuming the downed attack helicopter.

Thumb hitting the guns, she opened fire. Machine gun rounds piercing the body plating, the Sikorsky chewed into her fuselage taking out the onboard fuel tanks.

The explosion rocked the aircraft, and Cait turned tail.


	8. Chapter 8

Still feeling more than a little disoriented, String crept back down the corridor he'd just come with Straczynski. His gun in hand, he wondered if he'd be able to use it should the need arise.

Wearily he acknowledged, he'd been fortunate enough to hit Van der Berg's man when he'd been forced to fire before, but he'd been close. Too close, and it'd still taken him two bullets to get the job done. He was fading fast and he knew it. If he was going to get the Haversham down to save Cait and Roper, he'd better do it in a hurry.

Nine millimeter in hand, he pressed the heel of his hand against the gash over his right eye and tried to think. His stance wavered as he did so, and he was forced to throw out his left hand to catch himself against the wall as he staggered.

"Get it together, Hawke," he muttered impatiently to himself as he fought down the wave of dizziness. At the moment, he was Cait's only hope and he couldn't afford to fail. He had to find the target acquisition system and disable it.

Hand against the wall for balance, he padded down the hall, his ears straining for the sounds of oncoming footsteps. Somewhere ahead of him lay success, it was only a matter of finding it.

* * *

Skimming the air in nap of the earth flight, Cait pushed the Sikorsky to her limits. It was obvious the other choppers were gaining on her though, and would be within missile range in a matter of minutes. Desperate, Cait swung the chopper towards Van der Berg's base.

"Thought we'd decided that was a bad idea," Roper reminded her.

"Yeah, we did," she replied. "It probably still is."

"Then why…"

Alarms began blaring overhead, screaming a cacophony of noise. "What the…?" Roper began.

Banking hard left, Cait glanced at the instruments in front of her. "Seems Van der Berg got his Haversham back online."

"Crap," Roper muttered, grabbing hold of the console beside him as the helicopter rolled and fishtailed to avoid a sidewinder.

The female pilot made no comment, her fingers tightening around the stick as she pointed the helicopter straight into the perimeter of the Haversham field.

The Apache stayed with them.

Cait glanced up and grinned, "Come and get me."

Roper spun doing a double take. Surely he'd misheard.

No, Cait was definitely headed flat out through the Haversham.

* * *

The room opened up before him, a wide expanse abutting the hanger. The perfect place for a target acquisition system, he acknowledged - easy access and defensibility. Stealthily, he slipped into the room, the sounds of the ongoing repairs and work in the hanger ringing in his ears. Somewhere out there lay Airwolf, he thought longingly. Unfortunately, the likelihood of him taking her back seemed more remote with each passing moment. Cait and Roper could be his only focus now.

Momentarily, he thought of his fiery, red-haired wife, the feel of her in his arms, the softness of her skin against his. He knew without a doubt the chance of him ever holding her again was a slim one and he fought down the bitter taste of regret. Cait it seemed would always be his greatest regret - regret that he hadn't been wiser in their relationship, regret for the time they'd wasted, regret for what it seemed he'd never get to tell her.

Roper though was a close second.

A sound from the hanger startled him, the clang of metal hitting concrete rang out, reminding him how little time he had.

Shoving the gun into his waistband, String reached for the keyboard next to him. His expertise might be in flying, not programming, but he could read a radar and he knew Van der Berg's system was rapidly narrowing in on the Sikorsky. Fingers clattering across the keyboard, he dropped the perimeter sensors.

Absorbed in the task in front of him, he didn't hear the door open behind him, the noise barely registering on his subconscious as he focused on dropping the shields. The click of the safety on the gun registered instantly though, raising him to full alertness.

"Step away from the computer, Mr. Hawke," Van der Berg snarled.

String stiffened, knowing his luck had just run out.

"Now!" Van der Berg's voice cracked like a whip around his ears.

Carefully, Hawke hit the last key, even as he lifted his hands away from the keyboard to elbow height. Slowly, he turned over his left shoulder to face the man. "Wondered where you were," he taunted sardonically.

Cold hatred burned in the icy eyes as he contemplated Hawke. "You're too late," he snarled, eyeing the monitor behind him. "Even if they get through the Haversham, my helicopters will shoot her down."

"Maybe," Hawke replied. "But I wouldn't bet on it."

Startled, Van der Berg's gaze widened, then he laughed. "Oh, you're good Hawke, I'll admit, but that Sikorsky can't out fly Airwolf."

String's gaze narrowed in confusion. "Airwolf?" he asked dumbly.

"Oh, did I forget to tell you?" Van der Berg said mockingly. "Hmm, I guess I did. Your Lady's been repaired - maybe not quite like you had her, but she's more than adequate for shooting down that Sikorsky on her way to Red Star."

Gut clenching, Hawke realized he'd overlooked the obvious. It was never about money, or power, it'd been about revenge the whole time. Michael and Marella had simply been the means to an end, as had he.

"Ah, I see you get it now," Van der Berg laughed. "I was beginning to wonder if you ever would."

The enormity of his mistake slammed across his gut, Van der Berg was Anthony Cavelli, and if what he'd heard whispered in the halls of Red Star when he'd been testing Airwolf all those years ago was true, then the man had plenty of reason to hate Red Star and everyone in it.

Cavelli smiled, the grin cold and his eyes dead.

"Nice try, Hawke," he taunted.

Unthinkingly, String dropped his hand, grabbing for his gun.

Cavelli's finger tightened on the trigger of the gun he held, firing as he did so.

Searing pain exploded in String's temple. Darkness descending he hit the floor, the gun he held clattering to the ground beside him.

* * *

"Hard on your tail," Roper warned, "500 yards and closing."

Grimacing, Caitlin Hawke fought the stick in front of her feeling as if every muscle in her body were screaming. The helicopter banked clumsily, rolling into an Immelman turn.

White-knuckled, Roper called off the closing yards between the sidewinder determined to blow them out of the sky and the Sikorsky. Jaw-clenched Cait made no sign she heard, as she swung the Sikorsky directly into the Apache's flight path.

"Cait…" Roper warned.

"I see it," she bit out. "Think you can do better?"

At the last instant, the Sikorsky S-70 rolled belly up, climbing like a homesick angel. Behind her, the sidewinder found its target - just not the one the Apache had intended.

Dumbfounded, Roper watched the fireball that used to be a $5 million dollar aircraft plummet to earth.

His exultant yell, deafened Cait as she rolled the Sikorsky back the way she'd just come. Her own grin was exuberant though, as she did so.

"You still want to give it a go?" she teased.

"Nah," he crowed. "I'll fly with you any day, Cait. Any day."

Grinning, she shot him a triumphant look. "Good to know," she laughed. She shoved the cyclic forward, lowering the collective as she did so. "We've got a little help though."

Startled blue eyes met hers.

"Haversham's down," she said.

Stunned, Roper pulled up the monitors in front of him, realizing she was right.

"But how?" he breathed in dazed wonder.

Blue-green eyes crinkled at him as she adjusted the flight path. "Offhand, I'd say one Stringfellow Hawke."

Her ears were still ringing, when she flared and landed the helicopter five minutes later.

* * *

Inside the building, the shot rang out followed by deafening silence. Gun in hand, Roper only yards away, Cait felt the sound rip through her own soul. How she knew she couldn't have said, but she did. "No," she whispered, feeling the blackness sweep in at her . And then the word was being ripped from her lungs as she ran towards the sound. "No!"

Stunned, Roper spun, his own finger on the gun, thinking somehow they'd been made. Instead, he found Cait shoving past him, booted feet running down the hall.

"What the…?" he muttered. Clarity hit with some sixth sense he hadn't even been aware he possessed. "String," he whispered, and then he too was running, his heavier booted steps echoing down the hall, slamming after her. "Cait, wait!" he yelled.

She hit the room before him though. Footsteps slammed to a halt just inside the doorway. Sprawled face down, his gun inches from his hand, String lay in front of her, blood pooling beneath him.

In horror, Cait tried to breathe, to think. "No," she whispered. The word became a keening sob, as she flung herself down beside his body, reaching for him. "No! Don't you leave me! String!"

His own steps staggering to a halt, Roper cursed, eyeing the tableau in front of him. He'd barely registered the hope that had blossomed in his own heart at Cait's words in the air, and now the wound was ripped open again, bleeding and raw.

His shoulders sagged in grief, knowing there wasn't even time to allow her to mourn. "Cait, sweetheart, we've got to go," he whispered, his own throat thick.

"No!" she spat defiantly, raising tear-filled eyes to his. "I'm not leaving him!"

Floundering and adrift Roper glanced at her, Hawke's blood staining her hands. What was he supposed to do? If they stayed here, they were all as good as dead, but he couldn't leave him. This was his father…

Movement flashed in his peripheral vision, the click of a safety sliding off a gun, rasping against his ears.

"Look out, Cait!" he yelled, even as he swung towards the sound. The report of a bullet ripped across his hearing.

Screaming, Cait threw herself across String, her hands covering both of their heads as Van der Berg's bullet thudded into the floor beside her.

Roper turned and fired, his own shot going wide as well…

Van der Berg swung away, running for the hanger.

Roper cursed. Cait was vulnerable here, but if Van der Berg got Airwolf off the ground, more than just their lives were at stake. He tore off after the other man.

Caitlin's fingers slid through Hawke's baby fine hair, the texture of it feathering silkily through her fingers, as she bowed her head over his. "What am I supposed to do without you, String?" she whispered, her hand cupping his battered cheek. "I can't do this on my own." Bitter tears fell.

She felt the subtle shift under her hands, before she heard the words, so soft and slurred she almost missed them, his breath warm against her palm.

"Not…alone, Cait," he whispered raggedly. "Not leaving you."

Her own voice was husky, and tear-filled, as Caitlin pressed her lips to his. "You know I'm gonna hold you to that, Stringfellow Hawke."

"Yeah," he rasped softly. "I expected as much." His fingers tightened on hers.


	9. Chapter 9

Chest heaving and lungs burning, Roper pounded after Van der Berg. Adrenaline and grief lent him an edge his tired body wouldn't normally have had, but it wasn't enough. Despite his best efforts, the former Firm agent made it to the Sikorsky outside the hanger that he and Cait had left.

Shoulder first, he slammed through the hanger door, gun in hand. Already the whine of the rotors was in the air as they picked up speed. Lunging, he pelted towards the helicopter knowing if Van der Berg got it in the air, he'd be gone…

Shuddering, the helicopter lifted off just as he got there. Desperate fingers scrabbled for a hold on the hatch door, sliding, missing. Abruptly, the chopper swung nose away, tail boom heading his way. Gone from predator to prey in a matter of seconds, Roper found himself hitting the ground hard, hands over his head as he ducked tail rotors. The wind whipping at his face and stinging his eyes, he scrambled for his gun, leveling off a couple of shots at the rotors as he did so.

Hovering, the helicopter rose out of harm's way and Roper's reach. Heading down field he watched it go, a rising sense of frustration choking him.

The helicopter was almost to the end of the field, Roper's head bowed with grief and frustration when his ears caught the change in the wind. The steady chop, chop of her rotors shifted and he raised stunned eyes skyward as he watched the Sikorsky bank hard right and begin a strafing run down the middle of the field - in his direction. Cursing, he found himself running for the hanger and his life.

Machine guns chewed up the tarmac.

Turning over his shoulder, he emptied the rest of the Beretta's clip in Van der Berg's direction, knowing it was probably a vain effort. The helicopter kept coming.

Cringing, he hit the runway his heart pounding, his arms covering his head as the concrete shards rained down around him. Overhead, the Sikorsky swooped deadly and swift over the hanger with a final barrage. Swallowing convulsively, he watched her go. Van der Berg was gone.

* * *

It was with heavy footsteps, Roper trudged through the hanger. His call with Van der berg's gunship had been close and he knew it, he should be glad he was even alive, but mostly he just felt numb.

He dreaded facing Cait. He'd failed at stopping Van der Berg and there was a good chance his friends and family would pay with their lives. And Hawke…oh, geesh Hawke, he thought. If only they'd been a little faster. Bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. String's death had been preventable, if only he'd known, searched a little harder, done something different…

And despite everything, Hawke had once again managed to save them - even if it'd been at the cost of his own life.

Raking a frustrated hand through his short brown hair, he groaned, despair clutching at him. How was he going to face her, face seeing his father's body, knowing he'd failed them both?

Sucking in a bracing breath, he prepared himself to walk through the doorway, his heart pounding and palms clammy.

"Cait…" he began, before his feet even crossed the threshold.

The low murmur of her voice registered on his ears, and he looked up, unwilling, despair etching his face.

Stunned he took in the scene in front of him. Caitlin on her knees, dirt smudging her face and her jeans - and Stringfellow Hawke in her arms.

"You're alive…" he wheezed in disbelief, his breath whooshing out of his lungs. Relief, joy, amazement warred with one another on his face as he reached a trembling hand out to catch himself on the doorframe.

Hand to his head, and obviously more than a little disoriented, Hawke turned towards the sound.

"So it appears," String rasped weakly, as if he weren't too sure himself.

Arm wrapped around his shoulders, her body supporting most of his weight, Caitlin looked up at Roper in consternation, worry and fear evident in her eyes. "We've got to get him out of here and back to Red Star."

Mutely, Roper nodded, before reality slammed in and he groaned in despair.

Startled, she turned questioning eyes on him.

"Can't," he murmured dejectedly. "Van der Berg took the Sikorsky we came in on."

String shook his head wearily. He felt like he was going to be sick. "No," he whispered, "take the Lady."

Cait looked at him, a frown furrowing her brow, wondering how much he really remembered. "We can't String. Van der berg shot her down."

"No," he rasped in frustration, his voice harsh, trying to push up, his hand clutching at her arm. "She's flyable, …said so."

"What do you mean, he said so?" Roper demanded, a puzzled frown marring his lean features, as he knelt beside him. "Why wouldn't he have taken her, Hawke, if she was flyable? She'd be a lot deadlier than the Sikorsky. Better able to deal out the destruction he's wanting."

"Couldn't …fly her," he muttered. "Didn't have a pilot good enough…Wouldn't work for him."

Abruptly, the pieces fell into place as Caitlin met her step-son's eyes. Van der Berg might not have intended to use Hawke to fly Airwolf, but once again his stubbornness - and the Lady's had kept him alive. Flying Airwolf was a knife edge process anyway, only a handful of pilots could handle her at mach, and damaged and battered as she'd probably been in the crash, the group shrank substantially. By Hawke's refusal, and the delay it had bought them, it had probably saved his life. He'd been too injured initially to use the drugs they'd used on Michael.

She grinned, her fingers tightening on String's as she brushed a quick kiss to the mink brown strands that brushed her cheek. "I'll explain to you later," she murmured glancing at Roper who watched her expectantly. "Let's just say, stubbornness sometimes has its perks."

The younger man eyed her in bemusement, but nodded.

Cait cast an anxious glance towards the hanger and then at Roper, knowing String really wasn't up to the trip. Between the two of them, they'd have to get him out of here. She could only hope she was up to the job of flying the Lady home.

* * *

Scowling, Anthony Cavelli watched the desolate ground fly away beneath him. The thought of Red Star surviving unscathed ate at him like a fiery pit in his stomach. He'd waited far too many years to put his revenge into play, to be dissuaded at the last instant now.

His only regret was Airwolf wouldn't be there to participate in his grand plan. Between Thor's high-handedness and Stringfellow Hawke's stubbornness, that part of his revenge had slipped away. He'd never get to see Michael's face as he blew him and Red Star to kingdom come with his own creation. Well, his and Moffat's anyway, he thought with a bitter swallow.

Still, it had almost been worth it to kill Hawke with his own hand, to watch the pilot's palatable fear as those he loved rushed into disaster. Grimly, he savored the thought of the look on Hawke's face as he'd turned around and found him there, his own death staring him in the face. Yes, that was almost worth the sacrifice of Airwolf - would be worth it if he got to share the details with Michael.

Malevolence glistened in his eyes. Archangel would not take the news well, that he'd left Hawke behind, condemned him to death at his hands, and then done the same to Red Star. Revenge indeed was sweet.

* * *

Leaning heavily against Caitlin, Hawke staggered to his feet, Roper's arm around his waist on one side and Caitlin's on the other.

"Come on, Hawke," the younger man cajoled, blondish-brown hair flopping into his eyes as he shouldered the brunt of String's weight. Even on his feet, his father's steps seemed unsure, unsteady and he wondered about the severity of the gun wound he'd sustained.

String's head raised at the words and the blue eyes squinted in pain. "How much farther?" he rasped, as he struggled to focus on the dim shapes in the hanger.

Worried blue eyes almost the shade of Hawke's met Cait's anxiously beneath his load, but she merely shrugged as if to say she didn't know either. "Maybe another fifteen yards or so," he guessed, trying to encourage him onward.

Hawke's reaction was not what he expected. He came to an abrupt halt, wavering as he straightened to his full height, poised as if listening. The stop was so sudden, his son stumbled as he struggled to accommodate it. String seemed not to notice.

"What?" he demanded.

"The other Sikorsky's here," String stated matter of factly.

"Van der Berg took it, remember?" his son stated baldly, frustration lacing his tone as he stepped away.

"No," String replied tersely. "This one just landed."

Startled, Roper's eyes flew to Caitlin's. He'd heard nothing.

The pause stretched out immeasurably as the younger man debated his words. He huffed a doubtful sigh as he stood there.

String's head swung towards the sound, even as his grip tightened painfully on Caitlin's shoulder. "You've got to take it," he stated emphatically. "Otherwise, it'll blow us out of the sky before we can get the Lady out of here."

Roper's hand slid to the small of his back, sliding out the Beretta. He might not be sure he believed Hawke, but his words made perfect sense. The safety clicked off in his hands.

He only prayed if String were right, he did a better job this time than last. "Which way?" he grated, deferring to Hawke's keener ears.

"North end," he rasped, tilting his head in the direction of the sound he'd heard.

The younger man nodded mutely, his steps pacing out the distance to the door at the far end of the hanger, round the crates and supplies stacked haphazardly across the floor. "He gone?" he asked, his voice the barest of whispers.

"Yeah," she murmured quietly. "You know, you didn't have to send him on a wild goose hunt."

"Not…a wild goose hunt," her husband retorted. "It's the truth."

Startled blue-green eyes flew to his accessing. She hadn't heard it.

"Now, how 'bout getting me to that chopper before I fall down?" he muttered.

* * *

Sharp blue eyes took in the helo in front of him in disbelief. It was a dark green Sikorsky, as heavily armed as the first. The only thing he didn't get was how Hawke had heard it and he and Cait had not.

He only hoped he had better luck taking it, than he'd had keeping the first.

The pilot stepped out around the cockpit door, his manner relaxed, at ease. Carelessly, he tossed his gloves on the seat behind him as he shut the hatch door. The co-pilot swung around the tail boom of the helicopter, giving her a cursory going over as he did so.

Sliding deeper into the shadows, Stringfellow Roper's finger tightened on the trigger. He could wait. He knew he'd only get one chance with the two of them and he intended to make the most of it.

The men's steps echoed past him dully on the tarmac and he eased in behind them, weapon drawn.

"Freeze!" he ordered, his tone hard.

The first man swung around, his weapon coming up in one smooth move as he did so.

Roper didn't hesitate, he fired the shot that killed him.

The second man paused, mid-motion and raised his hands as he did so. He was no fool and he wasn't about to die for a cause he didn't believe in. Money was hard to spend if you were dead.

Roper gestured with the gun, towards the hanger door. He knew better than to get within the pilot's range without some sort of back-up plan first.

Gun in hand, he frog marched his captive back the way he'd come.

String was to Airwolf now, he noted. Seated in the pilot's seat, Caitlin stood beside him, her hand on his leg. Hawke's coloring was noticeably better, he thought in relief as he eyed the two of them, their heads simultaneously swinging towards him, Caitlin's hand going to her gun.

"Got a present for you, Hawke," he called out with a grin.

The look Caitlin shot him was amused. "Really?" she called. "Need some help with gift wrapping that?"

Roper grinned, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. "Maybe."

Turning, she laid her gun in String's lap. Strong, slender fingers closed about it as she murmured something to him before stepping across the hanger towards the two men. She picked up a handful of plastic cable ties off one of the crates as she did so, expertly sliding them into a longer binding. They'd do the job as good as any handcuffs she'd ever had would, and she had no intention of the man getting loose on the long flight home.


	10. Chapter 10

Jade Sinclair paused file folders in hand, outside Marella's office doors. She'd spent her morning down in the clinics of Red Star and the news she'd found was not good.

The only spot of good news she had to offer was that she'd finally managed to piece together the components of the drug Van der Berg had used on Michael. The not so great news was unlike the earlier versions of the Benzodiapines that had been used on her, this didn't have the short half-life. Instead, the longer it lingered in the blood, the greater the damage it did.

It was no wonder Michael had so many gaps in his memory. It was amazing he had any memory left at all.

And unfortunately, it was only going to get worse, unless they found an answer for it soon.

The question remained though, how did she tell Marella? And what were they going to do about it?

* * *

Shoving his bound and trussed prisoner into the Sikorsky, Roper eyed Cait standing before him. "You sure you're okay to fly her?" he asked. "It'd be tight, but we could all fit in Airwolf."

Caitlin shook her head. "No, much as I appreciate the offer, we still don't know what happened to those two Apaches from earlier. Our odds are better with the two helicopters. Besides, we may need it when we get back to Red Star." Neither one mentioned the unknown damage Airwolf had received in the crash. It was still highly debatable as to how battle ready the Lady was.

Hawke's son nodded, "If you're sure."

"We'll be fine," Cait replied, giving him a hug. "I've got what I came for."

His blue eyes wandered to Airwolf behind her, and Hawke seated wearily in the cockpit. "Yeah, I'd say you did," he said, with a smile.

* * *

The two helicopters sat on the tarmac, as Cait waited for the dark green Sikorsky in front of her to take off with Roper and his prisoner inside it.

"I still think you should've told him," the red-head said quietly.

Beside her, Hawke shifted restlessly in his seat before turning away to face the scene outside. A muscle ticked in his lean jaw, the warm sunlight streaming through the cockpit caressing his skin. "There's nothing to tell," he grated, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Yeah," Caitlin said with a heavy sigh as she reached for her helmet, eyeing the gash above his right brow; with him there never was. "You just keep telling yourself that." Wearily, she shoved the helmet on, missing the angry glare that he threw in her direction. Reaching down, her hand settled on the collective, nosing Airwolf unsteadily into the air.

Roper's voice crackled across the communications relay. "You guys ready over there, Cait?" he queried.

"Yeah, we're good," Caitlin replied, leveling out the wobble. The Lady might be flyable, but it was obvious she was still damaged goods. Ready or not though, they had to make it back to Red Star. "Your show," she tossed back.

"Gotcha," the other pilot returned, pointing his helicopter towards home and Red Star. Trailing his left flank, Airwolf followed.

* * *

"Do you still miss her?" Nicky asked, the words tumbling out uneasily as he stood with his uncle Saint John on the end of the dock. Together they stood looking out at Hawke's lake.

Somehow, Saint John didn't have to ask who, he knew. Bella, he thought with a sigh.

"Yeah, Nicky, everyday."

The boy was quiet a long moment, looking out at the deep blue water, squinting into the bright afternoon sunlight.

"My dad's coming back," he declared, as if daring Saint John to argue with him.

The older man sighed, a heavy feeling settling in his chest as he reached a hand through his hair. "I hope so, Nicky," he whispered, wishing he had the child's faith. Knowing somehow String had been no less certain of his fate when he'd gone missing in Vietnam for all those years. All he could think of was - what if his brother didn't come back, what if in not stopping Caitlin, she too was gone.

He loved the kids, he thought, hearing Amelia's voice from the cabin as she played, knowing Jo was there on the steps with her. Loved them more than his own life, but he didn't know if he could do it again. Watching the tousled reddish-brown hair rifling in the wind, knowing the piercing blue eyes squinting out at the water were the exact shade as String's, he remembered all too well what it'd been like raising his younger brother after they'd lost their parents. String's desolation had been unnerving, the walls he'd thrown up around himself unscaleable. He'd felt at times he'd lost his own brother that horrible day as well. He'd wondered if he'd ever get him back. Instinctively, he knew Nicky'd be much the same if his parents were gone. Dom had been the one to finally reach the boy, to draw him back.

There'd be no Dom though this time, he thought, his own hazel eyes dropping to the water below him at his feet. Only him.

Grief welled up in him like a new wound at the thought, raw and fresh, his chest tightening, the pent up sob in his throat threatening to choke him. Losing String would be hard enough, but he couldn't fail him in this, couldn't fail his son.

Strong, slender fingers wrapped themselves around Saint John's much larger, calloused hand as if he'd sensed his thoughts. "He'll be back, uncle Saint John," Nicky whispered, the piercing blue eyes certain as they met his.

Saint John's head bowed as he hugged the boy to him, his own tears falling unchecked. He only prayed Nicky was right.

* * *

Five miles out radar went off, the alarm grating across Cait's nerves as she scrambled to pull up the screens.

Almost simultaneously, Roper's voice cut across the headset. "Think we found your Apaches, Cait," he rasped.

"Great," she groaned. "How far out?

"Three miles," he bit out. They've got a missile away."

"Oh, crap," she muttered, as she tried to put some distance between them.

"Two miles and closing."

Cait's fingers tightened on the cyclic, fear swooping down on her. She was no combat pilot. Luck was one thing, but twice in one day was pushing it…

"Bank and turn," String rasped. "We've got to turn and fight. You'll never outrun them."

"But…"

"Do it now, Cait!" he rasped.

She swung the helicopter on its own axis.

"ADF pods!"

They dropped below Airwolf's belly with a solid kerchunk. Beside her, the Sikorsky also swung around, hovering deadly beside her.

In almost the same instant, the two Apache helicopters came into view, swooping up from the canyon floor. Roper didn't wait, throwing the Sikorsky into the fray with a volley of machine gun fire. It crossed her line of sight in a hail of bullets, nonetheless raking one of the approaching Apaches with its own torrent.

Knowing she had no choice, couldn't let Roper fight her battles for her, Cait banked Airwolf hard right avoiding an oncoming missile and fishtailing around.

Completing its pass, the Sikorsky turned for a second run.

Chain guns blazing, Cait slung Airwolf between the Roper's Sikorsky and the first Apache. Feet to spare, Airwolf rocketed between them, focusing on the Apache hanging back for the killing blow.

"Cait!" Roper yelled, the fear in his voice clear even through the helmet headset.

Knowing she'd only get one shot, Caitlin ignored him, flung Airwolf forward like an avenging valkarie. Her thumb hit the firing nipple. The hellfire missile tore away, ripping into the approaching Apache with a terrifying vengeance. A seething fireball erupted directly in front of her.

Two handed, she drug back on the stick, praying. It wasn't enough.

And then Hawke's hands were on the stick, hauling back with his superior strength, sending the helicopter heavenward. The flames from the fiery blast caressed Airwolf's underbelly, sending her temperature spiking, climbing. Hawke swung her hard right, ducking the explosion, feeling her buck beneath his hands. Disoriented he fought for control, listened for Cait's voice, his heart pounding in his throat. One mistake and they'd be dead - both of them, and it'd be all his fault.

"Stick back! Stick back!" He could hear Cait's yell. Desperately, he did as she directed. No second thoughts, no second guessing, just reacting.

The helicopter climbed, winging upward like a homesick angel. The climb seemed like forever, took maybe twenty seconds? Time had ceased to have any meaning for him, becoming just another enemy to fight.

And then, he was reaching for the collective, easing up on the cyclic with an innate instinct, an instinct born of gut and far more hours flying than he cared to count. An instinct that just told him to react, to do it and he did.

Hawke felt the cyclic shift in his hand. Knew the instant she took over, her touch light, sure. Everything his used to be, and suddenly was not.

"I've got her." The words whispered in his headset, reassuring and terrifying at the same time. Relief coursed through his body, even as his heart clenched at the words.

He left his hands on the controls, feeling the subtle shifts in balance beneath his fingers. Knowing Cait meant what she said and they were safe, that she'd get them home, that he wasn't needed anymore.

Numbly, he let the controls slide out of his hands. They slipped away, leaving him lost, bereft, adrift.

Darkness pressed in at him. Suffocating, choking he fought the sensation, feeling a whimper rise in his throat, threatening to choke him. He had never been so afraid in his life.

Abruptly, Caitlin looked over at him. A worried frown creased her brow even as she fought the urge to gather him into her arms. She might need that, Hawke needed Airwolf.

"Sticks six inches forward and to your right," she murmured directing, the headset picking up her voice, soft, solid, reassuring.

He reached out, did as directed, fingers fumbling as they hit the stick. He grabbed on like a drowning man grasping a lifeline. The sensation anchored him, balanced him.

Cait felt the difference the moment his hand was back on the stick, the subtle shift in the aircraft's balance and she compensated for it. Saw the difference it made in the clenched jaw, the set shoulders, the uneven breathing.

She fought the urge to reach over, take his hand, to run her fingers through his hair in a soothing caress. She blinked back tears, knowing if she could get Van der Berg back in her hands, she'd cheerfully kill him ten times over for what he'd done, be more than happy to rip his black heart out with her bare hands. The truth coursed through her blood, hot and angry. She pushed it away.

"You okay?" she asked, worried blue-green eyes looking him over, and knowing he was anything but.

"Yeah," he muttered harshly. It was a lie and they both knew it, consoling in its familiarity, one that she'd heard a hundred times before. And one that'd ultimately been true at least as many times. She could only hope that at some point it would be again.

"Banking left," she whispered her hand manipulating the stick, directing like a first time student.

She sighed.

"Hawke…"

The Mediterranean blue eyes turned her way, eyes the exact shade as the sky above the lake on a summer's day.

"Yeah?" he questioned, the words husky, soft.

"We will get through this," she promised.

He sighed, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. "Right," he whispered, the tone bitter, defeated.

Cait's glance skittered away, checking the instruments in front of her, tears running down her cheeks.

Stringfellow Hawke didn't notice. He was blind.


	11. Chapter 11

Roper took out the other attack helicopter, a round of cannon fire ripping into its fuselage. Even as he watched it plummet to earth and his heart rate returned to normal, he couldn't shake the feeling the worst was yet to come.

He flung a sharp-eyed glance over his shoulder at the man trussed and bound in the back. Secure, but angry, Van der Berg's pilot glared back.

No, whatever the threat was, it didn't reside here. Worriedly he scowled, unsure where the feeling came from. Steeped in practicality, he wasn't accustomed to experiencing Hawke's gut feelings or Nicky's uncanny sixth sense. Maybe it was just as well he wasn't, he thought ruefully, because now that he was experiencing it he sure didn't know what to do with it.

Unconsciously, his hand tightened on the collective, some inner sense prodding him to hurry - knowing that just because they had Hawke and Airwolf back it didn't mean the danger was over.

The thought of Hawke niggled uncomfortably in his brain. Something was off there, he just couldn't put his finger on it.

Fear had choked off all rational thought when he'd seen his father lying there in a pool of his own blood. Even now, in his mind's eye he could see the seeping gash in his brow clotting as the blood had run down String's bruised cheek. He didn't doubt Van der Berg had been happy to use his persuasion tactics on Hawke even as he'd gutted Airwolf for her military secrets.

He also had no doubts Van der Berg, well, Cavelli, he mentally corrected himself, would've gladly sacrificed Airwolf in his bid for revenge on the Firm. But Hawke's comment about him not having a pilot good enough, worried at him like a sore tooth.

Why hadn't Cavelli simply pumped him as full of drugs as he had Michael, and sent him on his way? He didn't care if Hawke lived or died, probably in truth would've preferred him dead. It eliminated a future potential threat.

Yet, Hawke had still been there, as had Airwolf even if half her electronics had been stripped. It just didn't make sense.

Why hadn't Hawke been good enough? Why wait?

Banking, he eased off to Airwolf's side, keeping guard detail on her flank. Just because Van der Berg's other helicopter had turned and run didn't mean it'd stay gone, that it wouldn't attack Airwolf or Red Star. The whole situation was too wonky for his taste, too full of holes to make sense.

Blue eyes narrowed as he took in Airwolf in front of him. The Lady had new rotors, these had a strip of yellow on the tips unlike her previous ones. Just how bad had String racked her up? he wondered as he remembered the gash down her flank on the pilot's side as Cait had stood there with String.

Nudging the throttle up, he edged alongside, confirming what his memories told him. Yeah, the gash was most definitely there - a swath just like…

Hell, just like a rotor had torn into it from a helicopter hitting nose first.

But that would've meant it'd have taken out the windscreen as well. Should've by all rights decapitated Hawke. He swallowed, bile rising in the back of his throat.

Sickened, he remembered the sight, recalling when one of his friends had gone down in a training accident. The rotor had torn loose, taking out Mike and his co-pilot. The Blackhawk had been armored, but in the end it hadn't much mattered; it'd been a closed casket funeral.

Dumbfounded, he slid around eyeing the Lady's windshield. Was it new too?

He couldn't tell, wasn't so sure suddenly he wanted to know. Needless to say the crash had been bad. No, Hawke probably hadn't been up to flying Airwolf, even if she had been flyable.

Which begged the question - exactly how bad off was Hawke? He might've taken the pilot's seat, but it'd definitely been Cait flying back there.

There'd been something off there. He'd sensed it, but couldn't put his finger on it in the hanger.

He'd simply been so relieved Hawke was alive, he hadn't questioned it.

Thinking back, he pondered it, his hands and feet instinctively adjusting the helicopters balance without conscious thought.

Hawke had seemed dazed, disoriented. Normal for a head wound. For Pete's sake, he'd been lucky to be alive, after Van der Berg's shot!

But what if it was more than that? his traitorous thoughts demanded.

Ruthlessly, he shuffled through facts and thoughts remembering the trip across the hanger.

Hawke had known where Airwolf was, had known she was capable of flight.

Yet, he'd asked how much further…

Why? He should know - he'd told them where to find her.

His thoughts flew back to the taking of the Sikorsky. Cait had gotten String to the sleek black helicopter by then. It'd been Hawke's keen hearing that had heard it, yet Caitlin who'd answered him.

At fifteen yards, they'd been almost to Airwolf there. How could Hawke not know where the Lady was? And yet he'd pinpointed the Sikorsky. It didn't make sense…

Unless…and here the blue eyes went wide. The Sikorsky had been strictly hearing - Archangel was right, his father did have ears like a snooper mike. Airwolf had been still, silent and therefore unfindable. Oh, String had known where she was alright, but he hadn't known how far. Hadn't been able to judge the distance. Numbly, he realized Hawke hadn't been able to see her.

And for one brief, stabbing moment before he ruthlessly shoved the thought away, Roper wondered if it might not have been kinder for Van der Berg to have killed Stringfellow Hawke.

* * *

Claxion alarm screaming in her ears Jade Sinclair scrambled for the stairs, her gun in hand. Alarms had been going off all morning, triggered by breaches in security, grating on everybody's already stressed nerves. The gut-clenching sensation in her belly told her this time it was the real thing though.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran all out for Seb's office. He wouldn't be there - he and Rivers would be flying the Raven in hopes of stopping Van der Berg before he got to Red Star.

But the files he wanted, would be.

She knew, because she'd put them there.

Gasping, she reached the top of the landing, her feet barely hitting the last stair tread before she was slamming into his office. Dark, black hair swung into her eyes, wrapping itself around her throat. Impatiently, she shoved it away as she rummaged through his desk looking for the disks containing the classified Airwolf files.

A dull click startled her, redirecting her attention to the doorway. A tall, blonde man stood there. A man with the coldest blue eyes she'd ever seen.

And she knew with dead certainty, this was Van der Berg.

"This what you're looking for, Ms. Sinclair?" he taunted, cold amusement lighting his face as he held up a couple of disks in front of her.

Jade's fingers twitched on the desk, instinctively reaching for her gun where it lay only inches away. She could taste her own fear.

"I wouldn't know, Mr….?" she answered, the sentence hanging like an unfinished epithet in the air.

" Cavelli," he returned mockingly. "Though I go by Van der Berg these days. Somehow I suspect you already knew that."

"Well, Mr. Cavelli," she answered, her tone hardening. "This is a classified government installation and I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Her fingers slid another half-inch closer to her gun on the desk as she spoke.

"Really?" he said sardonically, arching an eyebrow watching her.

"Really," she bit out, her green eyes hardening as she grasped the gun, snatching it up and leveling at him in the same heartbeat.

Van der Berg beat her to the punch though, his finger closing around the trigger even as she took her shot.

Jade knew she'd missed, as the bullet from his gun tore into her flesh, pain unlike anything she'd ever known ripping her breath away. The gun she held dropped to the floor, beside the desk, beside the spreading puddle of blood.

"I don't think so, Ms. Sinclair," he smirked, shoving her crumpled body off the desk to pick up the last disk there. "You see, my clearance outweighs yours."

Gasping, Jade fought to breathe, fought the darkness pulling her under.

Shoving the disk into his pocket, Van der Berg aimed one last vicious kick at her stomach as he walked out of the room, stepping over her body. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he murmured, "I have a man to go see." Her blood trailed him on the tread of his shoes.

Jade whimpered, knowing it'd be Seb who'd find her here. Seb, whom despite everything she still loved and probably always would. "So sorry, Seb," she whispered. "I'm so very sorry."


	12. Chapter 12

Guns blazing, the Sikorsky tore a burning swath across Red Star's easternmost side. Rivers could hear the glass shattering amongst the cannon-fire even as he ran for the sleek green-black gunship in front of him, Seb hard on his heels.

"Get her in the air!" he yelled, shoving the helmet home as he ran. Seb nodded, his fingers scrabbling on the sleek green-black surface as he flung the cockpit door open.

Rivers was in the cockpit, fingers flying across the console, rotors kicking into gear even as Seb dove for the countermeasure specialist's position. Main rotors strained, lifting her skyward as Mike pulled back on the collective.

"You got guns and rockets," Seb bit out, eyeing the suddenly grim-face pilot.

Mike nodded. "Wish me luck," he muttered, flinging her heavenward.

G-forces shoving him into the seat, Seb struggled for breath as the helicopter climbed. Might not be Airwolf at mach, but it certainly wasn't more pleasant to his mind.

Leveling out, the helicopter swung around nose downward, as she turned on Red Star's attacker.

"It's not Airwolf," Seb muttered in stunned astonishment.

Rivers shook his head, looking as confused as the younger pilot. "No," he muttered eyeing radar, wondering where Hawke's black merchant of death was. "It's not."

Uncertainly, he hovered torn between the need to halt the destruction below and knowing if Airwolf got the drop on them, they were all dead.

"Rivers!" Seb yelled, watching a rocket tear into the eastern wall. Plumes of smoke coiled into the air as the flames greedily licked at the building. "Do something!"

Wincing, Mike acknowledged he was right. If something wasn't done in a hurry, it wouldn't matter if Airwolf blew them out of the sky.

Shoving the stick forward and dropping the collective, he threw the helicopter into a power dive, accelerating like a falcon on its prey below. The Raven's machine guns rattled across the Sikorsky Blackhawk's armored hide, gouging into it like talons into flesh.

Wheeling, the Blackhawk swung, loosing a missile of her own.

Rolling, Mike banked the helicopter as Seb hung on for dear life, his stomach rebelling.

"Gimme a hellfire!" Rivers panted, as he fought to snatch the helicopter up from the ground rushing up below.

Seb slammed his hand across the weapons panel. "Hellfire," he rasped, closing his eyes against the seemingly inevitable rush of ground rising up to meet them.

In a lurching snatch, the Raven climbed again, powering out of the heart stopping dive. Behind her, an explosion rattled, raking the fleeing helicopter with debris. Seb sucked in a heaving breath, stunned to find he was still alive.

Rivers' foot came down on the left rudder pedal, swinging her tail around as the Raven spun 180 degrees back the way she'd come - abruptly facing the oncoming Sikorsky.

Nose to nose, the Raven faced the attack helicopter as realization slammed into Seb like a fist in his guts. "It's not Van der Berg!" he rasped.

"Well, he's close enough," Mike snarled, as he hovered sideways keeping the other helo firmly in view. Turning slowly, they circled each other, Rivers' finger hovering above the machine guns button at all times.

Below them, Red Star burned much as she had all those years before under Moffet's tutelage. "Ah, blast," Seb whispered, eyeing the demonic orange glow beneath as the truth hit him.

_It wasn't Van der Berg, because he was already in the building. _Horror edged the words as they rushed past his lips breathlessly. "We've got to get down there, Mike. Van der Berg's already inside!"

* * *

Michael's uneven stride paced the length of the room, the limp sharp and pronounced, waiting, anticipating. He knew beyond a doubt that Van der Berg had to be in the building, that it would only be a matter of time before he came for him.

He still hadn't heard from Cait or Airwolf. The knowledge ate at him like acid. It was entirely possible Caitlin had been wrong and her headstrong rescue attempt had cost her her life, as well as Roper's.

It was also entirely possible she'd been right and they were all still dead. Ruefully he smoothed his hand across his mustache and counted himself lucky Marella wasn't there to run the numbers for him. He didn't think he wanted to know the odds.

A scuffle broke out in the hall, the sharp retort of gunfire loud in the stillness, Michael reached for the gun on his desk and waited.

He didn't have long to wait.

Van der Berg stepped in gun in hand, the icy pale blue eyes cold and ruthless as he scrutinized the spy.

"Why Michael," he sneered. "I do believe you've been waiting for me. I wish I'd known. I would've come sooner."

Archangel straightened, his own gaze deadly cold. It wasn't for nothing that he'd been the deputy director of the Firm for twenty years. "Don't worry about it Cavelli. Gave us plenty of time to prepare."

"Ah, so you did figure it out," Van der Berg jeered. "I so hoped you would."

Archangel's fingers tightened on the butt of the gun he held. "So where's Hawke?" he demanded.

Van der Berg laughed. "Why Michael, whatever happened to your social niceties? I always remember you as being the consummate gentleman - even when the world was well, going to hell in a hand basket." The icy blue glare was deadly as a cobra's now.

"Some things change," Michael bit out, his voice a harsh growl. He leveled the gun at Cavelli. "Hawke?"

Van der Berg shrugged unconcernedly. "Unfortunately, I had to kill him. Stupid man thought he could take my Haversham screen off line and me not notice. Darn inconvenient."

Fury coursed hot and angry through Michael's blood as Van der Berg continued.

"All wasn't lost though. His wife showed up just as he died to say her goodbyes."

"Cait," Michael whispered, knowing how devastated she would've been. "How could you, you cold-hearted …."

"It's more than you gave me!" Cavelli ranted, all semblance of control gone. "The Firm cut me out and left me to die, Michael! I watched my wife be raped and beaten to death in front of me, my only child bleed to death before my very eyes. They had nothing to do with that mission, and you know it!"

"Neither did Cait or Hawke," Archangel intoned grimly. "How many more innocents are you going to kill for your revenge?"

"As many as it takes," Cavelli spat contemptuously. "Besides, innocents? Come on, Michael! Hawke had as much blood on his hands as you or I. I'd hardly call him an innocent. He's killed his fair share and then some."

"And Cait?"

"The wife?" Cavelli sneered. "Well, call her collateral damage. I do."

Rage, dark and blinding, unlike anything Michael had ever known coursed through his veins, shadowing his vision.

Cavelli's eyes narrowed appraisingly. "Ah, I see the drugs are finally starting to take effect. I was beginning to wonder…"

Catching himself on the desk, Michael's good eye flew to the man's face. The room swam dizzyingly around him.

Cavelli blithely raised his gun for a head shot. "Face it Michael. I killed Hawke under his wife's nose and there's not a thing you can do about it. Not then, not now."

Reeling, Michael stumbled, feeling the full effects of the drugs in his system now. His gun dropped from nerveless fingers, sliding across the wood of the desk.

Cavelli smiled, his finger on the trigger.

"No, but I can," Marella warned softly, clicking the safety off the gun she held against the back of his head.


	13. Chapter 13

Booted feet slammed down the hallway, echoing down the tiled corridor.

In front of her, Marella watched in horror as the man she loved collapsed, folding in on himself as he hit the floor in a crumpled heap. "Michael!" she cried, every other thought fleeing as she covered the ground between them. Instinctively, she knew it wasn't a bullet wound even as her hands roamed methodolically over his body, frantically searching.

"Samantha!" she screamed, calling for Michael's assistant, uncaring who heard her at this point. "Samantha, get some help in here! Now!"

* * *

Rivers swung the helicopter round facing down Van der Berg's Sikorsky. For a helicopter supposed to be hopelessly outmatched, it was proving amazingly hard to take down.

"On your left!" Seb cried, swinging in his seat to see the dark green gunship slide into position behind them preparing to fire on them.

Desperately, Mike swooped the Raven upward. Too heavy to loop as Airwolf did, she banked hard, scrambling to get into a defensive position.

Radar screamed in his ears.

"Now what?" he bit out, rolling the helicopter out of the way of the Sikorsky hard on his tail.

Pulling up the monitors, Seb identified the threat, the same instant Mike spotted it. "Another Sikorsky, armed like the first - less than a minute out."

The blonde, blue-eyed pilot bit down on a curse. "Like I don't have enough to keep me occupied?" he muttered, swinging the helicopter out of harm's way.

Another shape appeared on the radar, the IFF scanner scrolling through aircraft on the monitor in front of him. Seb winced watching the screens narrow in on a modified Bell 222 helicopter, flying far too fast for a 222.

Glancing over at him, Mike caught the stricken look on his face. His hand tightened on the stick, this time he didn't really need to ask. "Let me guess," he said dryly, rolling to face the attacking helicopter. "Airwolf?"

Seb's tone was equally grim. "Yeah."

* * *

The aerial dogfight in front of him was vicious, Stringfellow Roper acknowledged, watching the Sikorsky dive like an avenging angel. Somehow though every time he thought Mike's bird was done for, the green-black Raven would find an out.

"Cait?" he questioned, knowing the other couldn't keep it up forever. It was only a matter of time before one took the other out and he was hoping it wouldn't be Seb and Rivers.

"I see them," she answered in clipped tones, watching the life and death struggle in front of her.

Nose down, Airwolf swung into the attack. Slicing through the air between the two helicopters, she rocked them both in her downdraft. The Sikorsky swung 180 degrees leveling her guns on the sleek black gunship. Bullets rained against the cockpit.

Beside her String flinched, his hands clenching, sensing the threat, yet unable to pinpoint it. Unable to fight it.

"Sorry," Caitlin murmured, then cried, "left rudder," and the helicopter swung around hard.

Hawke's hand flew out, grabbing, seeking an anchor, as the helicopter slung him sideways. His fingers clenched around the seat as he fought the overwhelming sense of disorientation. "No problem," he muttered, hoping he wasn't about to lose his lunch. "Just shoot whatever the blazes it is your chasing down!"

Catching sight of his parchment white face, Cait shoved down a wave of sympathy as she dropped the ADF pods down. Blue-green eyes wincing, she realized doing an aerial dogfight blind had to be one of the worst tortures one could think of. Watching his jaw clench as the helicopter bucked and rolled, she ached for him.

IFF alarms shrilled, warning her that her moment of inattention was about to cost them - dearly. Snatching back on the stick, she swung upward, climbing.

"Chaff!" Hawke yelled hoarsely, hearing the alarms shrilling, knowing the missile was probably locking on to them, fear in his voice. "Chaff now, Cait!"

She hit the button for chaff, deployed it, taking out the missile with it. Hawke's breathing harsh in her ears, Caitlin flung the Airwolf back into the fray, slamming a missile home.

Tearing away, the maverick ripped through the air, aim true, taking out Van der Berg's Sikorsky. Climbing, she skirted the explosion, heat roiling across the Lady's belly.

Palms sweating, String dug his nails out of his hands. "Talk to me, Cait," he rasped.

"Van der Berg's Sikorsky's down," Cait murmured, realizing he had no way of knowing what had been taken out.

"Seb?" he whispered.

"Okay," she answered, seeing the relief course through his body as he slumped boneless with the news into the seat beside her.

He'd no more than heaved in one trembling breath, when the next thought slammed into him. "What about Roper?" he demanded, tension flowing through his body once more.

"He's fine," she answered, feeling the last of the adrenaline ebb away, leaving her trembling and exhausted. "We all are."

Well, not exactly, she thought, casting him a glance as he sank back in the pilot's seat, fists clenched, fighting the fear, the darkness, the sense of helplessness. But if he could do it, then so would she. Tamping down her own fears for him, for them, she hit the communications relay.

"Airwolf to Raven, Airwolf to Raven - requesting an escort to Red Star."

* * *

Seb's blue eyes flew to River's, jubilation lighting his gaze. "It's Cait!" he crowed excitedly. "It's Cait! Woo-hoo!"

Relief flowed through Mike's veins, edged with a slight hesitation from the older pilot. As desperately as he wanted to believe it, the news seemed too good to trust, to believe. Deception was Van der Berg's stock in trade. "Who's with you, Cait?"

"I am, Rivers," Hawke rasped dryly. "So don't get any ideas," he retorted, his voice gruff.

Seb's yell of jubilation rang through the headset, echoing Mike's relieved laugh. "Wouldn't think of it, Hawke."

Blinking back her own tear-filled grin, Caitlin joined in the banter. "Hey, Rivers, while you're at it how 'bout making sure you don't shoot down my wing man," she teased.

Roper's shout of laughter echoed through the headset as his Sikorsky joined the other two helicopters. Cait reached down and laced her fingers through Hawke's momentarily, feeling his grip tighten on hers as they headed back home to Red Star.

Side by side, the helicopters landed outside the hanger, Airwolf flanked by Roper's Sikorsky. Smoke from the earlier dogfight still curled in the air, flames still licking greedily at the east wall as others fought to tame it.

"Where's Van der Berg?" Hawke demanded hoarsely, feeling Airwolf settle to the ground.

River's reply over the headset was uneasy. "Somewhere inside, if Seb's hunch is right."

Roper's curse was audible across the radio. "We've got to get to him before he gets to Michael." Even as he spoke, Caitlin could see Seb and Rives flinging off their helmets as they scrambled from the helicopter towards Red Star. Light brown hair tousled in the ebbing rotor downdraft, Roper thudded after them, sparing only a worried blue-eyed glance in Airwolf's direction. Then he too was gone, half a heartbeat behind.

Reaching for her own gun, the safety clicking off in her hands, Caitlin started after them only to freeze where she sat.

Instantly, Hawke swung his head in her direction narrowing his own blue eyes on her. Sighted or not, his expression was fierce. "You've got to go with them, Cait," he clipped.

"But…" she whispered, her fear for him warring with the very real danger she knew Van der Berg to be.

String huffed in frustration, railing against his own uselessness. What good was he against Van der Berg like this? To anyone? Least of all, Cait. If the turncoat agent came after her here, there wasn't a thing he could do. She was better off without him. At least she could see the danger coming, he thought bitterly.

"Go," he rasped. "They need you."

"But, Hawke…"

"Now, Cait!" he snarled, his anger clawing its way to the surface, and wrenching loose. "They need you! Seb and Roper need you! Michael needs you!"

Recoiling, Caitlin flinched before his very real anger. She knew he had a temper, had seen it run amuck, but it'd never before had it been directed at her in this way. "What about you?" she whispered.

String scowled shrugging, what she could see of his expression shuttered as his head dropped. "I'm fine," he ground out.

_He didn't seem fine. _Watching him, Cait fought down her own frustration, hurt surging within. "Yeah, I can see that!" she bit out angrily, her own red-headed temper flaring. _Stupid, stubborn, lunkhead, she thought. _Anger gave her strength she didn't know she had, as she shoved her shoulders back facing him down. "You're doing a real good job of showing me, Stringfellow Hawke!"

Reining in her own temper with difficulty, the red-head grabbed a handful of his flight suit and dragged him towards her. The kiss she gave him was hard, bruising, desperate, only softening when his lips responded to hers.

Here at last was something familiar, something he knew beyond a doubt whether he could see it or not. His fingers slid across her cheek, trembling, hesitating as he felt her tears. He drew back, knowing they were his fault.

Cait bowed her head, her heart breaking. "Fine, Hawke," she whispered. "I'll go - for now." She hauled in a steadying breath as she felt his breath warm against her cheek. "But we're not done here, String. Not by a long shot," and with that she pushed away, sliding out of Airwolf's cockpit and heading after the others.

String knew when she was gone, heard it in the sharp click of the cockpit door, sensed it in the whoosh of pressurized cabin air behind her.

He huffed a sigh of his own. Hoping she was right, but suddenly not too sure. He drug off the headset, burying his aching head in his hands in despair, knowing he had no choice but to wait.


	14. Chapter 14

Seb scrambled up the steps, knowing Roper and Mike were just behind him. He'd lost track of Cait in the confusion.

Ahead, he could hear Marella, her voice raw and desperate as she yelled for Michael. Too late, he thought. Whatever it was, they were too late to stop Van der Berg, he could only hope it wasn't too late for Michael as well.

Roper and Mike caught him in the hall, surging past him into Marella's office, even as he caught a glimpse of movement on the stairs ahead. Making a split second decision, he lunged for the upper staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Whatever he'd sensed was gone by the time he made it to his office though.

Relief coursed through him unbidden as he turned the corner. It was empty, apparently undisturbed. And then as he stepped through, he realized how horrifyingly wrong he was.

Unthinkingly, he shoved the gun he carried into his waistband, gaping at the blood that pooled across the floor, seeping into his carpet. "Jade…" he whispered hoarsely as he lunged across the room, dropping down on one knee to gather her limp form up into his arms. "No," he whispered, desperation in his voice. "Oh no, sweetie. You can't do this."

"Jade?" His fingers slid across her throat searching for a pulse, anything, some sign of life. "Come on, baby," he pled. "Be okay, be okay. You've got to be okay." His breath a harsh rasp now, he hauled her into his arms, her long, dark black hair spilling across the bloodstained floor at his feet. "Please, Jade you've gotta be okay," he sobbed. "Who else is gonna kick my butt into line? Jade!"

His head bowed over hers, the tears that fell salty and hot on his feverish skin. But it was no use, she was gone.

* * *

It was Cait who found him, later. At first she'd been terrified he too was shot, the blood smearing his hands and arms, covering his flight suit. Seeming to be everywhere. She didn't have to ask about Jade, one glance at the younger man's grief stricken face, giving her the answer as he held on to her, sobs racking his body.

"Oh Seb," she whispered her own tears falling as she crossed the room. She'd liked the younger woman, admired her spirit and adored what she'd done for Seb, bringing out a joyous side to the serious younger Hawke brother. Had hoped against hope, that he'd found his happiness as String had.

Dropping to her knees, her arms slid around him as she pulled him close wishing she had some comfort to offer and knowing there was none. Her tears mingled with his.

"Why?" he whispered. "Why Jade, Cait?"

Her fingers smoothing the tousled blond hair beneath her hand, she sighed. She had no answers.

* * *

Meeting Mike's worried blue eyes over the stretcher that Archangel was being loaded onto, Roper frowned. Where the heck were Seb and Cait anyway?

Cait and String of all people should be here. If ever Marella needed a friend…

_Oh heck, Hawke! _he'd forgotten. Where the hang was Cait anyway? She had to know Hawke'd be frantic by now.

Suddenly, more than a little worried, he grabbed for River's arm as he trailed Michael out of the room. "Where's Caitlin?" he hissed.

Rivers frowned, 'til he saw the very real fear in Hawke's son's face. "Don't know. Why?" he asked.

"She's missing and so is Seb."

"You think somethings happened to them?" River demanded, eyeing Michael's still form on the stretcher as the medics wheeled him out.

"I don't know!" Roper snapped. "If I knew, Mike, I wouldn't be asking you! I do know she wouldn't have just left Hawke hanging without a reason though."

"Okay, okay!" Mike placated. "We'll go look for them." He'd taken a step when he wheeled on Roper.

"What do you mean left Hawke hanging?" It suddenly clicked, Cait had been flying Airwolf and String had been nowhere to be found when they'd rushed Red Star. That alone was enough to send all sorts of alarm bells ringing in his head.

One thing you could never accuse Stringfellow Hawke of, was backing down from a fight.

But then why would Cait have left him if he were hurt? It didn't make sense, unless…

"He made her leave," Rivers growled, rolling his eyes in disgust, as the answer suddenly became clear. "Stubborn, stupid…"

"Yeah," Roper said succinctly. "So what's new? Don't you think we'd better go find her before something else goes wrong?"

Catching a last glimpse of the medics as they headed down the hall, Mike swallowed. "Yeah, maybe we might."

* * *

"Hawke, if you want me to examine you, a little co-operation wouldn't go amiss," Monique Branscomb grumbled. Curly, dark hair tumbling down her back in a thick braid, the doctor was all too familiar with the Hawke brothers and their stubbornness. She didn't take it personally, she figured it was the only thing that'd kept them alive as long as it had.

String shifted on the examining table. Obviously unhappy, but nonetheless making an effort. She sighed, she knew he was trying, but she wasn't so sure she was going to have good news for him this time.

The cut over his right eye looked nasty and ragged. It should've had stitches a few days ago; as it was, it was healing, though it'd leave a scar.

Quite frankly though, it was the things she couldn't see that concerned her. The ongoing nausea and dizziness - those were indicative of a concussion, how bad she couldn't tell without an MRI, something she knew that would thrill him to no end.

The blindness, well, that really worried her. Could be hysterical - goodness knew from what little he'd told her, he'd been through more than enough the last few days to produce it. Only problem was, Hawke was about the least flappable person she'd ever met. Somehow she couldn't picture him succumbing to an attack of nerves. That'd be about as likely as her grandmother flying fighter jets, she thought grimly.

Which left either the concussion - she was pretty sure he had one, or the bullet graze - assuming Van der Berg hadn't decided to use him as some sort of guinea pig, like he had Archangel.

The thought of Archangel brought her up short. She'd seen him when they brought him up earlier, read the charts. It didn't look good there. Grief, she prayed Hawke didn't have a similar fate in wait for him.

He might make her want to rip her hair out every time she saw him, but it was hard not to like the taciturn pilot. He had a heart of gold - assuming you ever got past the armored-plating he hid it behind. She'd seen it from time to time and quite frankly, she envied Caitlin Hawke what she'd found.

Clicking off the penlight from examining those sky blue eyes, Branscomb sighed. "Okay, Hawke, much as I hate to say it, we need to get you up to MRI. I'm going to need something stronger to see into that thick head of yours."

His left hand shot out, catching her wrist as she started to turn.

"The truth, Mona," he whispered hoarsely. "Tell me the truth. What's wrong with me?"

She started to pull away and thought better of it, her hand settling comfortingly on his knee. Hawke didn't trust lightly and for him to have admitted any vulnerability was huge.

"I don't know, Hawke," she sighed. "I really will have to see the MRI to tell." Here, her hand reached out and clasped his, squeezing. "But I promise you, I will do everything in my power to get you your sight back, okay?"

String nodded, sensing the truth of her words, swallowing hard, knowing she would do her best. Unfortunately, he realized, her best just might not be good enough.

_What other choice did he have?_

Her hand pulled away from his and he could hear her footsteps as she turned towards the door. "Caitlin's here," she said, spotting the red-head talking to a nurse in the hall. "You want me to go ahead and send her in?"

His fingers clenched uneasily on the edge of the exam table where he sat. _How did he explain to the woman he barely knew, he was suddenly afraid to talk to the woman he was married to? To have her think him less of a man?_

"No," he said, his jaw tightening, even as he dropped his head in shame.

Stunned, Monique Branscomb turned to stare at him, sure she'd heard wrong. "Hawke?" she questioned.

Stubbornly, String kept his head bowed, knowing the disappointment that'd be in her face whether he could see it or not. "You heard me," he whispered hoarsely. "I can't face her like this." The last was a broken rasp, as his shoulders slumped in agony.

Jaw dropping, the tall brunette eyed him. "Hawke," she murmured aghast. "Caitlin loves you! Surely you know that! Whether you can see her or not doesn't change that."

"Make up something," he grated. "I don't care what. Tell her you have tests to run. Something, anything."

"String…" she began, her hand on his shoulder, searching for words.

He shrugged it off angrily. "I said no! I meant it."

Pain creasing her own face, the doctor sighed, her own heart aching, though whether more for Hawke or Caitlin she couldn't have said

"Fine," she whispered, as she reached for the door. "I'll send an orderly in to take you up to MRI in about ten minutes."

The door clicked shut behind her.


	15. Chapter 15

"What do you mean I can't see him?" Caitlin railed, her eyes flashing. "He's my husband!"

Wincing, the brown-eyed nurse tried again. "Dr. Branscomb left orders that Mr. Hawke have no visitors."

Seething, Caitlin looked like she'd like to punch the younger woman. "He's my husband," she gritted, "and I have every intention of seeing him. Now, either move out of my way, or get Dr. Branscomb down here now!"

Rounding the corner, Monique Branscomb caught sight of Caitlin O'Shaunessy Hawke in rare form. It was unusual the red-head really got riled, but…

Tightening her grip on Hawke's charts, she broke into a trot. "Caitlin!" she exclaimed, as she hurried towards her.

The pretty red-head spun. It was obvious she was not about to be mollified. "What do you mean I can't see Hawke?" she demanded hotly.

The doctor slid to a stop beside her, dreading what she was going to have to say next. "Exactly that," she said, her own eyes sympathetic. "Caitlin, we need to talk," she said soberly, as she ushered the other woman aside.

Relieved, the brown-eyed nurse watched them go, glad the red-head was someone else's problem.

Frowning, Caitlin fell into step beside her. "Alright, Monique," she muttered eyeing the doctor warily. "You've got my attention - what gives? Why can't I see String?"

The doctor sighed wearily, "Have a seat, Cait."

"I don't think so," Caitlin rejoined. "Just spill it, Monique…"

The female doctor shrugged. "You might want to think twice about that," she sighed heavily.

"How bad is it?" Caitlin blanched, gripping the seat in front of her.

"Sit down Cait," the dark-haired doctor ordered, not unkindly.

This time she sat.

"Hawke's got a concussion," she said. "Somehow, I doubt you're exactly surprised to hear that."

Mutely, Cait shook her head. "I knew the crash was pretty bad."

Monique sighed. "I don't think it's all from the crash."

"What do you mean?" Caitlin asked, eyeing her worriedly.

"I think Hawke took a second blow to the head when he was shot. The resulting swelling in addition to the effects of the crash are putting pressure on the optical nerves - causing the blindness."

"But you can fix this, right?" Cait asked, rubbing her forehead with a grimace, where a pounding headache of her own was taking up residence.

"Maybe," Branscomb said warily. "Painkillers and steroids for the inflammation are about all I can do, Cait. Aside from that - time."

"So, that'll take care of it?"

"**Maybe**," Branscomb replied. "It's hard to say, Hawke's not a typical case. He may get some or all of his vision back. He may get none." she warned.

"Great," Cait whispered, burying her head in her hands. "How long 'til we know?"

"Eight to twelve weeks."

Swallowing hard, she nodded. "So, when can I see him?"

"That's the next problem," Monique Branscomb sighed. "He's refused to see you."

* * *

Saint John Hawke paced the small hospital room as he glared at his brother. In typical Hawke fashion, he'd ignored the standing no visitors rule.

"Are you just that stubborn, or are you really that stupid, String?" he exclaimed. "Cait loves you. This changes nothing!"

"It changes everything, Sinj and you know it," his brother muttered, his tone bitter.

The older pilot raked an exasperated hand through his hair, standing it on end. "Let me guess," he growled. "It makes you love your family less, makes you less of a patriot, oh wait, maybe it makes you less of an idiot!"

Tracking his brother's footsteps in the room, Hawke's jaw clenched angrily.

Saint John rounded on him.

"I swear String, if you weren't already in that bed, I'd pound you myself! How can you be such a selfish, egotistical jerk?"

Muscle leaping in his lean jaw, String snarled back. "Because I hate having Cait see me like this? Honestly Sinj, what kinda life am I supposed to provide for her? There's not exactly a lot of demand out there for out of work, blind helicopter stunt pilots. I can't take care of her, I can't protect her. Hang, I can't even find my way out of a cardboard box at the moment! Not exactly prize winning husband or father material when you think about it."

Hazel eyes troubled, Saint John sighed. "So instead you've made up your mind to sit in this room and hide, huh String? You know, I really thought better of you than that." Wearily, he raked a tired hand through his hair.

He lowered his voice, searching for reason. "Look String, the choice is yours. Cait loves you, though only heaven knows why, sometimes. She risked everything to get you back. I'd like to think you'd do the same for her."

"You know I would," he whispered, his voice thick, rusty with disuse.

Frowning, Saint John stared at him. "Then what are you trying to do?" he asked. "Destroy your marriage? Lose your family? Is that going to make it better?"

Hawke scowled, turning away from his brother. "And if somebody comes after her, or the kids? "How do I protect them, then Sinj?"

"You do the best you can," the other man replied. "Nothings a given in life, String. Not for any of us," Saint John sighed, rubbing a hand to his chin. "Besides which, Cait's pretty capable herself."

"Maybe," Hawke conceded.

"She got you out, after all," Saint John reminded him.

"Yeah," he admitted wryly, still obviously none too happy about placing her in danger to do it.

"Look String," his brother said. "Cait's not one to sit on the sidelines. That's not how she is, and that's not going to change whether you're there or not. You might as well realize that."

Hawke shifted restlessly in the bed, but said nothing.

His brother huffed in frustration. "The choice is yours. I know that. I just think you're making a mistake." His hand was reaching for the door handle when he turned and flung his parting shot over his shoulder.

"It is ironic though, you have to admit."

"What?" Hawke questioned warily.

"That Seb would give his eyeteeth to have back, what you seem so determined to throw away." He stepped through the doorway.

Confusion clouded Stringfellow Hawke's thoughts as he fought to understand his brother's words. "Saint John, wait!" he rasped, as the door clicked shut behind him., leaving him with the sick feeling there was something important he'd missed. He just wished he knew what it was.


	16. Chapter 16

Cait's fingers interlaced with his, Hawke struggled to wait out Monique Branscomb's examination. He'd have felt a lot more self-conscious in only a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms, being given the sharp once over had he not felt the tremble in her fingertips.

It drew him back on track, reminding him that as hard as this was on him, in some ways it was much harder on her, leaving her with the brunt of the burden to carry. For that, he ached.

He fought down the cynical thought that at least he didn't have the blind husband to deal with, and the pitying stares. Exasperation with both himself and his thoughts tinged his grimace as he shoved the self-defeating thoughts away. Self-pity would get him nowhere, and he knew it.

"Well?" he rasped impatiently, sensing rather than seeing the doctor step back when she finally finished her exam.

Startled, Branscomb's dark brown eyes flew to his even as she reminded herself no matter how it seemed, Hawke couldn't see her. Still, she swallowed a sigh as she worked to formulate her answer.

"On the whole, you seem to be healing quite well," she answered noncommittally, as she pulled the latex gloves off.

"But, there's no sign of my vision coming back," he finished.

"No," Branscomb sighed, knowing she couldn't lie to him. "But you have to understand it's still early days, Hawke. Optic neuritis typically takes eight to twelve weeks to resolve itself. There's a lot of inflammation still from the crash and the blow you took. Until we resolve that, you're not going to see any improvement."

He swallowed hard, biting down the disappointment that clogged his throat. He could feel Caitlin's fingers tremble within his, realizing with a start she was afraid.

"So, what now?" she asked, her voice tight.

Reflexively, his grip tightened over hers as if to reassure. He found he didn't like the idea of him being the reason she was afraid.

Branscomb was continuing in the background, unaware she'd lost her audience. "Ultimately, it's a waiting game."

"Check me out," String rasped.

"What?" the doctor exclaimed, her words tumbling to a halt.

"You heard me," Hawke growled. "I said, check me out. I'm done here."

Beside him, he could hear Caitlin's indrawn breath, sharp and uneasy. "Hawke, this is a bad idea," she murmured.

His fingers tightened on hers, imploring her understanding. "It's a waiting game, Cait."

"Hawke, it's a little more complicated than that," Monique Branscomb replied with a frown. "Your meds have to be stayed on top of, your eyes monitored…"

"Is there anything else you can do that you're not already doing?" Hawke broke in.

"No, but…"

"Then I'm capable of taking some pills and putting drops in my eyes, Mona. Check me out," he said his voice rough.

"And if it gets worse?"

He gave a wry grimace. "I don't think it could get much worse, Branscomb." .

There was no answer to that, she thought sadly. He was right.

She slapped his medical file closed. "Yeah," she muttered. "I'll see about sending your meds down."

* * *

Dawn crept in cold and grey. Marella estimated it'd been two days, thirteen hours and six minutes since Hawke had made his precipitous return from the dead - and Michael had been consigned there. She had enough medical knowledge to know the prognosis was not good, and enough faith in miracles to believe that maybe, just maybe, a man whose codename was Archangel might just pull one off.

There was something to not knowing the odds, she thought. It'd served Michael well all those years ago when Moffet had tried to kill all of them. Had enabled him to pull them both to safety when by all odds they both should've died in the resulting inferno Moffet had created of Red Star. Had somehow seen him through the loss of his eye and the committee's subsequent attempts to oust him from his position as deputy director. Despite everything, both he and Hawke seemed to have a knack for outplaying the odds of both the Firm and seemingly every other foreign power had thrown at them over the years.

Unfortunately, it was getting harder to maintain her faith in him beating the odds this time. Three hours ago, they'd had to restrain him to keep him in the bed. Now he was clinging to consciousness and it was steadily growing harder to believe he'd ever leave it.

"Fight, Michael," she whispered, wrapping her fingers around his. "Fight. I need you here with me." Unbidden and unseen, the tears fell as she waited.

_

* * *

  
_

_Darkness drew at him, clawed at him with ravening teeth and a ferociousness he'd thought he'd escaped. The stench of burning flesh assailed his nostrils, roiling his stomach, threatening to pull him under._

_Pain licked at his limbs, telling him all was lost, urging him to give in to the dark agony that gripped him. Groaning, he bowed his head feeling the heat take his breath away. Maybe, there was no way out…_

_A moan from somewhere near him, snatched him back to the present. "Marella?" he whispered, his voice scratchy and strained with smoke._

_Again the soft moan, barely more than the battered cry of an animal drawing its last breath._

"_Marella!" he yelled, his voice dry, raspy. Coughing ripped through his lungs stealing what little air he had left. Desperately, he found himself crawling towards the sound. "Marella, where are you?"_

_The moan was there again. "Michael?" she murmured._

_A faint sound rasped against his ears, calling his attention. Coughing and hacking, Michael clawed his way towards the sound, knowing abruptly his wasn't the only life at stake here. If he died, then she died too._

_Strong, lean hands shoved away debris, searching, clawing…_

…_and finding. Colliding with her limp form, tangling in the unruly strands of her hair. Relief coursed through his body, followed by paralyzing fear. He could feel the shuddering heave of her chest under his hand as she fought for air and nothing more._

"_Marella," he whispered, wondering if he was already too late, cursing himself for being ten kinds of fool. Screw the committee and their directives. If she died, then he might as well also, he realized as he gathered her into his arms._

_Desperate fingers clutched cruelly at her arms, shaking her, praying she wasn't so far gone he couldn't revive her. There was no way he could drag them both out, not with his ruined leg. "Wake up," he snarled. "Wake up!"_

_She stirred in his arms, eyelids flickering. "Mi…chael?" she choked, the words giving way to a fit of desperate coughing. Her lungs felt like they were on fire._

_Memory came rushing back, slamming into her with the subtlety of a freight train. "Moffet?" she gasped, brown eyes wide and stunned. "Where's Moffet?"_

"_Forget…Moffet," Michael panted, each breath a bigger battle than the last. "We've got to get out of here or we're as dead as the rest of the rest of them."_

_Pain hazing her eyes, Marella shoved to her hands and knees, beside him. Shards of glass exploded from the heat and the cannon fire cut into her palms, gashing her knees._

_Strong fingers bit into her waist, urging her forward, guiding her. Together they crawled towards what had once been the doorway, praying there was still a way out._

_Pounding feet slammed down the hall, counterpoint to the crashing glass and greedy flames behind as the fire and explosions consumed the observation bay._

_The smoke haze thickened like fog, each breath burning their lungs like acid now. Next to him, Michael could hear Marella's choking gasps as she fought to breathe, his own breaths wheezing now._

_The slam of a shoulder against the door reverberated, echoing on his senses. He could hear help only yards away - if only they could reach them._

_Overhead he could hear the crackle of flames as they reached the ceiling, whipping through the insulation above._

"_In here!" Marella screamed hoarsely. "In here! Help us!" Coughing, her head bent to the floor._

_His hand reached for her intending to urge her on, promising himself at this point he'd drag her if he had to. Overhead he heard the groan of metal giving way. He flung a sharp glance upward just in time to see the ceiling come crashing down._

_Long tanned fingers reached out, grabbing hold of Marella and hauling her to him, rolling her beneath him as it fell._

"_Not leaving you," he muttered, flinging an arm over his head._

_Then the world imploded and darkness reigned._

_

* * *

  
_

"The simple fact of the matter is Stringfellow Hawke is a security risk, Marella," Henderson bit out, his cold, grey eyes hard. "He has been since day one."

"That man has risked his life for us any number of times over the years," she retorted.

"That may be," Henderson acknowledged grudgingly. "But the fact remains he was out of contact with a known traitor for who knows how long."

"He was Van der Berg's prisoner," Marella spat incredulously. "A fact that is largely our fault. I'd like to know how that makes him a security risk!"

Mathias Henderson scowled at her, his eyes cold. "All we have is your word he isn't and from the looks of things around here, that isn't much!"

Blanching, Marella stepped back.

Advancing on her, Henderson pressed his advantage. "The only person around here Hawke has ever even vaguely answered to is Archangel. With Archangel out of the picture, there is no way I'm leaving him in charge of two of the deadliest helicopter's in the US government's arsenal. Not Airwolf and certainly not the Raven."

The door clicked shut behind him with a thud. Startled, Henderson spun, finding Roper and Rivers glaring at him, arms crossed and expressions deadly.

"Then I suppose it's a good thing Archangel isn't out of the picture just yet," Mike said coldly, jerking his head in the spy's direction.

Stunned, the man turned back to meet Michael's angry glare from the hospital bed. The man might be in pain, but it was obvious he was also a long way from dead.

Michael Coldsmith Briggs III shoved up in the bed, single light blue eye deadly behind the glasses he wore. "Last I checked, Henderson," he snarled, " Airwolf and the Raven were my projects, and I decided who flew them. Hawke is in charge of Airwolf and Rivers the Raven."

"Stringfellow Hawke was out of our control for nearly two weeks with a man known for wanting to destroy the committee. He's a security risk."

"Hawke has never been under your control," Archangel bit out impatiently. "Your failure to realize that goes a long way towards explaining why you never made director for the Firm."

"Archangel, you overstep your bounds!" the man growled, his face reddening.

"Not nearly far enough," Michael fired back. "You should count yourself fortunate he hasn't blown you to kingdom come over the years! At the moment, I'd probably supply him the armament. Now, get out Henderson before I throw you out!"

Henderson glared back. "This isn't the end of this, Michael!" he spat.

"Yeah, it is," Roper stated, his own blue eyes stormy, stepping towards the man. There was nothing subtle about the implied threat.

Henderson scowled, even as he reached for the door. It slammed behind him as he left.

Wincing, Marella reached for Michael's hand as he collapsed wearily back against the pillows. "How long have you been awake?" she asked huskily.

"Long enough," Michael grumbled, looking up at her as his fingers tangled with hers.

"You had me worried," she murmured quietly.

Michael's gaze caught hers as he gave her a weary grin. "I meant it when I said I wasn't planning on leaving you."

Marella blinked back tears as she pressed a kiss to his hand clasped tightly in hers. "I know," she whispered.

Catching Roper's eye, Rivers nodded towards the door and the two of them slipped out unnoticed. The news that Hawke was no better could wait.


	17. Chapter 17

"Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" Amelia squealed looking up from the box of Legos she'd sprawled all over the floor of Jo and Saint John's apartment. Blocks scattered everywhere as she scrambled to her feet and launched herself across the room at him.

Lean and weary, Hawke rested a hand against the door frame, staggering back as the child flung herself at him, catching him around the waist unawares.

" 'Melia," he whispered, stroking her long unruly hair as he bent to hold her in his arms. He'd wondered at times if he'd ever find his way home again. He still wasn't entirely sure he had. Bitterly, he fought down the surge of emotion that clogged his throat, as he wished he could see her just one more time.

The news today from Branscomb had not been promising. It was obvious the doctor had been hoping for some signs of improvement and she hadn't found it. He wasn't looking forward to sharing the news with the rest of them. He might not be out of time yet, but he knew the clock was ticking.

"Dad?" Nicky's low voice teased his senses. Soft as though he was almost afraid to say his name.

Disoriented, String struggled to place his son, lost in the same room. Hearing him was one thing, finding him another. He pushed to his feet, somewhat dizzily reaching for the door frame.

Instead, he encountered his brother, Saint John's hand clasped him under the elbow, hauling him upright. "Good to see you man," he whispered huskily. "You had us worried."

"That makes two of us," String replied grasping his brother's arm as the room swung somewhat dizzily. He held his breath waiting for the sensation to pass and hoping Saint John wouldn't notice.

No such luck.

"String?" the older man asked, tightening his hold on his younger brother's arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he whispered uneasily. "Just don't make a big deal about it. Cait's worried enough as it is."

Saint John started to nod, realized it was a useless effort and murmured a strained, "Fine." Despite whatever he said, his brother looked rough. Cait wasn't the only one who was worried.

"Where's Nicky?" String whispered, low under his breath, missing the uneasy look that passed between his brother and Cait.

"Other side of the room, six o'clock," Sinj directed, his voice so low even Hawke barely caught it.

He turned over his left shoulder, unfortunately right as Nicky stepped forward. The gaff was evident and Nicky caught it instantaneously.

Pain and hurt crossed the boy's face, even as his blue eyes flared open wide. His chin trembled for an instant and then he was running for the door, his steps pounding across the wood floor.

"Nicky?" Hawke rasped. He felt his son rush past him, grabbed for the boy's arm and missed. "Nick?" he yelled, his voice harsh, as he took as awkward step after him.

That was as far as he got. The instant the door slammed open and Nicky's shoes hit the soft ground outside, he lost him.

Saint John's calloused hand came down on his shoulder. "Let him go, String. He'll be back. It's been a tough couple weeks all around."

String didn't answer, his thoughts on the boy. Wearily, he wondered if there was anything else he could do wrong, before the earth opened up and swallowed him.

No, he sighed. He wouldn't be that lucky.

"Take me home," he rasped to Cait, his face desolate.

Worriedly, she glanced at Saint John.

His brother shrugged helplessly. Nicky had String's propensity for disappearing. It'd taken hours to find him when he'd disappeared the day before.

"String, it'll take awhile to find Nicky," she murmured.

"Now, Cait!" he snarled, shoving the sunglasses he held onto his nose. "The kids are better off here anyway!" Hurt and aching, he reached for the doorframe, his hands fumbling across the surface finding the handle of the door. It slammed behind him as he stumbled out.

_

* * *

  
_

The trip back to the cabin was near silent. Caitlin had left the kids with Saint John and Jo, all three of them agreeing it was the better choice. Nicky was still nowhere to be found and Saint John had promised her he'd radioed her when he showed up. Amelia had acquiesced amazingly easily when Caitlin had told her she'd be staying with her aunt Jo and uncle Sinj for a few more days while her daddy got better.

Looking into her wide blue eyes, Cait had a feeling she didn't have any better idea what to do with this stranger her mom had brought home with her than Caitlin did.

_She could only hope, a few more days would put thing right._

Looking over at the silent man on her right, the red-head sighed. Somehow in the last two days, the man she'd married had morphed back into the wounded soul she'd known all those years ago. He'd erected walls she had no idea how to scale and he seemed to have no intention of letting her or anyone else in.

"String?" she murmured. There was no response. Frowning, she eyed the hunched figure. It was possible he really was asleep - he'd have every reason to be, it'd been a horribly long day - but she had a suspicion that it was just a convenient way to ignore her, to be left alone.

"String, we really need to talk," she murmured.

He shifted restlessly in his seat. "There's nothing to talk about," he rasped dryly.

Cait fought the urge to roll her eyes. Mike was right - a herd of pack mules would be less stubborn than Hawke.

She sighed. "He didn't mean it, String."

This time she caught the jaw clench, the flash of hurt in his face, before the impassive mask slid into place. He crossed his arms, scowling. "Oh, he meant it, Cait," he muttered.

"He's a kid, Hawke. This has hardly been the fairy tale ending he was hoping for. He doesn't understand."

"Well, that makes two of us," Hawke said flatly. "Maybe it would've been better all around if I hadn't made it back this time."

Agony stabbed through her soul at his words. "Hawke, you don't mean that," she whispered.

"Don't I?" he muttered under his breath, turning away.

This time she had no answer, just the tears that fell at his words. She had no idea how to reach him.

* * *

Seb Hawke paced the floors of the beach condo he'd shared from time to time with Jade. It'd always seemed open, spacious before - now it merely seemed empty.

He reached for the coffee cup he'd left on the counter intending to fix a cup, his sleeve brushing the opened bottle of merlot next to it. It tottered and he grabbed for it before it could crash to the tiled floor.

Bottle in hand, he reached to put it back on the counter, idly recognizing it as the one she'd brought only days before.

The afternoon on the beach rushed into his thoughts. The surf crashing on the beach, the salt air sharp in his lungs. He'd intended to ask Jade to marry him this weekend, plans thrown to the wind by String's sudden supposed death.

His own fears and doubts had merged with his brother's. He knew what he did for a living had its risks, knew what Jade did had the same, but he'd never felt it as keenly as he had that day.

He set the wine bottle on the counter with trembling fingers.

"_I was a fool." _He could feel the wind ripping around him, wrapping her hair around his body, taste the merlot on his lips where she'd kissed him. Hurt had filled her eyes even as he felt her fingers tug free from his. He'd seen the tears coursing down her cheeks even as she'd spun away from him.

"_What are you going to have at the end of the day…?" _

"Oh jeesh, Jade," he whispered, dragging his hand across his face. The bottle hit the counter with a thud, his shaking hand reaching out to steady himself against the cabinet.

Caitlin's tears at the memorial hazed across his mind, the eagle calling on the high winds overhead. She'd been desolate, but he had no doubt she'd do it all over again given the chance.

"_What are you going to have at the end of the day…?" _Agony ripped through his gut at the memory of her words, the pain in her voice as she'd said them.

_What did he have?_

**_Nothing._**

His fingers clenched around the bottle snatching it up, hurling it at the far wall.

The bottle crashed against it, shattering and spewing dark red wine everywhere, dripping and running down the wall seeping into the crevices, liquid the exact same color as her blood on his hands. The image clogged his throat, sending him to his knees.

"Oh jeesh, Jade," he whispered. "I'm sorry, so sorry. If I could take it back I would."

His anguished sobs echoed through the empty house.

* * *

Darkness closed around him, choking, smothering. He could sense the danger around him, even if he couldn't see it.

His fingers trailed along the rough wall. Caitlin's scream pierced his ears, even as he lunged towards it. He could hear her sobs, the crash of gunfire, the thud of heavy armament around him.

He felt the comforting bite of cold metal in his fist from the .45. Knew he had to find her, save her.

But no matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find her. Shadows battered at him, even as his heart pounded in his throat, fear a bitter taste in his mouth. Chest heaving, he wrenched awake, but the darkness was no less. Panic beat at him. What was dream and what was reality?

He fought against the rising sense of hysteria, of panic, knowing it wouldn't help, his own breathing harsh and labored. Fearfully sliding his hand across the bed, he felt for Caitlin. The warmth of her skin comforted him, even as his fingers splayed across her ribs feeling the easy rise and fall of her breath as she slept.

Dream, he told himself wearily, finally drawing a deep breath, his lungs burning. Exhausted, he dropped his head into his hands feeling like he'd run ten miles.

Something had to give, he didn't know how much longer he could do this.

* * *

Leaning back, Mike drew a long swig of beer before he eyed his friend. "So, no new news from String?" he asked, his voice rueful.

"Nope," Saint John sighed, as he picked up the bottle on the step next to him. "Nothing."

Mike frowned, looking away. "So, how're the kids taking it?"

Saint John's worried gaze dropped to the ground, at his feet. "I don't know," he muttered. "Amelia misses him, but she seems okay. Nicky got in another fight at school. He's suspended 'til next week."

"Thought he was the one who was so sure String was alive," Mike commented.

"He was," the older pilot returned. "Not that its making much difference right now. If anything, he's gotten to be a bigger handful since String came back."

Mike contemplated that silently for a long moment before turning his attention back to his drink. "And Roper?" he asked quietly.

Saint John's eyes narrowed as he shot him a surprised look. "Okay, I guess," he said doubtfully.

"Hey, I was just wondering," Mike replied. "This whole mess affects him to."

The older pilot's shoulders sagged. "Sorry Mike, I know. For the most part, I think he's just happy String's alive and he gets another chance to get to know his father."

Nodding, Rivers picked up the beer bottle again, shifting it uneasily from hand to hand. "Shame about Jade," he said quietly, thinking of Seb.

"Yeah," Saint John agreed, his eyes on the horizon as he though about his youngest brother. He hated that Seb seemed to have inherited his and String's luck when it came to losing the women they loved. Seb wasn't taking her death well at all, seeming determined to cut himself off from the rest of the world.

"You talk to String about it?" Mike's words intruded on his thoughts. He'd seen Hawke when he'd thought he'd lost Caitlin. If Seb stepped off the edge of that abyss, he wasn't sure any of them would be strong enough to pull him back.

"No," Saint John sighed, worry lines marking his brow. "I've got a charter out of Van Nuys to San Joaquin tomorrow. It'll have to wait 'til after then."

"I wouldn't wait too long," Mike frowned, looking off at the setting sun. The blue eyes were sober and the mouth grim as he finished off the last of his beer.


	18. Chapter 18

**Friday 7:08 a.m. - Eagle Lake**

"String, are you sure you don't want to go with me?" Caitlin asked, eyeing her husband with consternation. Hawke had been near silent since she'd gotten up this morning, the extent of conversation he'd offered merely being a grunted thanks when she'd handed him a cup of coffee.

Turning his head, he tracked her voice, not moving from his seat near the breakfast bar. He'd always been fond of the aviator shades he wore flying, now they'd become a constant fixture hiding the sapphire blue eyes and any trace of any expression behind them. Caitlin had about decided she hated them. If String had been hard to read before, now he was impossible.

She tried again. "String, did you hear me? If you want me to ask Saint John to fly out and stay awhile with you, I'm sure he'd be happy to."

Hawke fought down a grimace. His head was killing him and he really didn't feel up to the ordeal of making small talk while Michael was hanging on by a thread and his own world was falling apart.

Knowing he had a lot to be grateful for was easy, believing it was something else.

"I'll be fine, Cait," he rasped, his voice harsh.

Wiping her hands on the damp dishtowel she held, the red-head bit her lip, her chin trembling, Hawke was so far out of her reach she had no idea how to touch him these days. She only knew the abyss that had threatened to pull her under when she thought he was dead was back.

The difference was, this time it seemed determined to swallow them all.

Oh, she knew he was struggling. If anything, the scene with Nicky yesterday had really put things over the top. Hawke had always been moody, haunted by his ghosts and a darkness that threatened to drag him under. If it weren't for his bloody-minded stubbornness and defiance, she had a feeling it would've claimed him years ago. She just hoped Nicky hadn't unwittingly managed to tip the scale the wrong way.

The whispered brush of his jeans-clad leg against the bar stool had her raising her head. Blue-green eyes lit uneasily on his lean form as he felt for the edge of the counter seeking direction.

"Go see Michael, Caitlin. I'm sure Marella could use a friend right about now."

"And you?" she questioned, eyeing him doubtfully.

Focusing in on her voice, Hawke forced himself to take a step forward, hoping he'd guessed her position right, praying he wouldn't fall flat on his face. It wouldn't go a long way towards convincing her he could be left alone, he thought sardonically.

His shin smacked into the rung of one of the stools by the breakfast bar. Biting down a curse, he winced, his voice harsher than he realized. "I'll be fine, Caitlin," he growled. "I've got all the babysitters I can handle." Limping, he headed for the stairs.

* * *

**Friday, 4:13 a.m. - Saint John's apartment, Van Nuys, CA**

The keening howl of a wolf rent the air, ripping ten year old Nicky from uneasy sleep, dreams of ravening darkness and death. He could almost feel it crouching in the corners of his room, waiting, watching.

"Dad?" he whispered, his voice quivering as he hunched under the covers his blue eyes still bleary with sleep. There was no answer. There never was these days, he thought, angry at his own fear. "Fine," he muttered, "I can do this." Swallowing hard as he shoved up, pushing the bunched quilts aside…

And then, amongst the shadows, a darker form separated itself from the gloom. Feral teeth gleamed in an evil smile even as the hands reached out for him.

Startling, awake instantly, Nicky scrambled backward in his bed, his throat tight with fear. "Dad!" he yelped, craw fishing backwards.

Black claw like hands reached for him, a filmy white cloth in their clutch.

"Dad!" he screamed. "Dad! Uncle Sinj! Help!" Frantically, his fists slammed against an iron grasp, fighting, but already it was too late as a sweet, sickly scent pulled him under. Boneless, he collapsed into the waiting arms.

Hefting the boy's slight weight unceremoniously over his shoulder, Anthony Cavelli smiled. It seemed the game wasn't over after all. Silently, he stepped out the window in front of him, carelessly tossing an envelope on the bed as he went. The curtains billowed in the breeze behind him.

* * *

**Friday, 8:03 a.m. - Red Star**

Briefing interrupted, Saint John answered the transferred phone call in Archangel's office. "What do you mean he's gone?" Saint John Hawke demanded, trying to make sense of the garbled words on the other end of the line. Frantic and gasped, they didn't improve.

Frustrated, he raked his hands through his hair trying to piece together whatever Jo was raving about. "Jo, stop it!" he finally yelled, exasperation etching his voice.

Beside him, Caitlin turned suddenly wary blue-green eyes on him, somehow sensing things had just taken an abrupt turn for the worse. "Sinj?" she whispered, placing her hand on his arm.

Impatiently, he shrugged her touch off, his whole being suddenly focused on Jo's words on the other end of the line. "No. No, Jo. Don't call the police. I'm here with Michael and Marella. Let me talk to them first." Fingers tightening on the phone, he listened, his face grim. "Yeah, I understand," he sighed, abruptly looking every one of his years. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

Numbly, he dropped the phone back into its cradle.

Marella was on her feet, even as he turned to face them. "What now?" she demanded.

Saint John shot Caitlin an apologetic look. "Nicky's gone. It looks like Cavelli's got him."

"But…but how?" the red-head murmured, stunned, reaching for the bed rail beside her. "I mean, he was captured here at Red Star."

"He also escaped Red Star," Marella commented dryly, setting down the bedside phone. "We've got three agents down in interrogation and two more men wounded." The last comment was directed at Michael.

Struggling up in the bed, Archangel cursed. "How long?"

"About five hours."

"Why weren't we informed?"

"Henderson was."

"Ruddy idiot," he snarled. "Get Rivers and Roper on the phone, we've got to get him back."

"They're on their way," the female agent replied, her tone terse. "We've posted extra guards around Airwolf and the Raven in the meantime."

Michael nodded, reaching for his cane.

Fighting the choking fear that threatened to strangle her, Cait finally got the words out. "So what does he want with Nicky?"

Michael frowned, worry shadowing his good eye. "Revenge," he muttered darkly. "We'd better pray he doesn't realize Stringfellow Hawke's still alive."

* * *

Eyes narrowing, Anthony Cavelli glared at the insensate child on the seat beside him. It didn't take much of a leap of logic to realize he was Stringfellow Hawke's son. If his appearance and build hadn't given it away, his attitude would've. Insolent pup, he thought, disdain curling his lip. "Too bad you won't live long enough to become the real pain in the rear your father was," he muttered mockingly. "I'm going to enjoy killing you." Grimly, he rubbed his arm where the kid had bit him when chloroform had worn off.

For bait though, he'd do. That was the problem with Archangel's crew for Airwolf. She was only as deadly as her pilot and every member of her crew had the same weakness - each other. Hawke had been willing to die to protect them and Archangel, somehow he was willing to bet the others would do the same for his son.

His eyes cold, he glanced over at the boy, realizing in surprise the boy was conscious again. "Ah," he sneered. "Decided to rejoin the land of the living I see."

Angry sapphire blue eyes glared back. "You won't get away with it," Nicky spat defiantly. "My dad will come get me."

Cavelli chuckled, the boy was more fun than Hawke. "Won't get away with it?" he drawled, amusement clearly in his voice. "Looks to me like I already have. Your father's dead," he taunted cruelly.

Stunned, Nicky stared wide-eyed at the man fighting the sudden fear that clawed at him. "Is not!" he yelled, grabbing for the car door. Hands bound, he wrestled with the handle even as Van der Berg was forced to slam on brakes, grabbing for the boy and hauling him back against the seat.

He snatched the boy up and shook him. "Didn't they tell you kid?" he laughed derisively. "I shot him!"

Nicky froze momentarily his own blue eyes wide, before they narrowed angrily and he threw back his own taunt. "Didn't they tell you?" he snarled, a miniature version of Hawke and every bit as defiant as before. "You missed!"

* * *

Grimly, rivers looked over at Archangel and Marella across from him. "I don't for the life of me understand why you didn't just shoot him when you had him, Michael!"

Marella hissed her impatience. Heaven knew she'd wanted to, but higher priorities than her own feelings had been in play. Michael's life, for one. "Look, Rivers," she bit out. "We didn't. I understand your feelings, but…"

"Do you?" Roper growled beside him, suddenly furious. "That maniac nearly killed Michael, tried to kill Hawke and slaughtered Jade in that room upstairs!" Gesturing, he flung a frustrated hand upwards. "Now, you're telling us he has Nicky!" he spat. "Next, you'll be telling us he's flying Airwolf…"

"Enough, Stringfellow!" Archangel snapped, pinioning Hawke's eldest son with a glare. "We don't have time for this and it's not getting Nicky back."

Scowling, the younger man backed off, but his expression was still fierce. He paced off the length of the room awaiting an answer.

Michael sighed. He wished he had one. "Alright guys," he muttered. "Let's try and come up with a plan."

* * *

Wearily seated on the front porch steps with a tepid cup of coffee, Hawke heard the helicopter long before he would've seen it - assuming of course, he could, he thought wryly. His ego was a s bruised and battered as his shins and he wondered vaguely if he could sell the idea of the cabin being attacked by a marauding band of vandals.

"Probably not," he muttered, knowing he'd cleared the coffee table when he'd tipped it over earlier tripping over it.

The wind off the lake shifted subtlety and like a wolf scenting the air, he turned puzzled, listening, craning for a sound.

"Crap," he muttered, realizing it was neither a Firm helicopter or either of the Santini Air jet ranger ones. Sikorsky S-70. "Who the heck would be flying one of those things in here?" The chop, chop of the blades echoed across the lake and a prickle of unease crawled across his neck. For a supposedly rare bird, the things were suddenly showing up all over the place.

It was headed down towards the clearing by the lake, too big and too heavy to land on the dock which also served as a landing pad - something any of his normal visitors would've known.

Cait's comments about Van der Berg's Sikorskys outfitted as gunships came to mind and reflexively he tugged his shades off, his thoughts uneasy. Instinctively, he knew something was wrong. Pensively, he set the cup down on the porch.

Nowhere to run, he thought grimly. Hard to make an escape when you couldn't see where you were going.

The rustle of underbrush and booted feet coming up the hillside caught his attention and raised his head. Eyes narrowed and tension throbbing through his body, Hawke waited.

"String!" Saint John's yell, strong and slightly breathless from the run, carried across the clearing on the wind. "String, where are you?"

"Here, Sinj!" he yelled, gaining his feet, hearing the worry in his brother's voice. "What's wrong?"

Loping across the clearing, Saint John slid to a halt feet from where his brother stood, hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. "They've got Nicky," he panted.

"Who?" String demanded tightly, his sightless blue gaze narrowing in on his brother's voice.

Saint John Hawke raised his head, air rasping painfully through his lungs as he struggled for the words. "Van der Berg," he gasped.

The epithet String muttered wasn't pretty. "When?" he snarled, taking a step forward his fingers clenching on the porch rail.

"Early this morning," Saint John murmured. "Michael thinks he might come after you next."

The sightless blue were hard. "Good," Hawke snarled. "Saves me the trouble of finding him." His jaw clenched in fury, before the rest of Saint John's words penetrated. "Michael's awake?" he asked, his tone relaxing slightly.

"Yeah," Saint John muttered, eyeing his brother with trepidation. He hoped String wasn't going to do something stupid. They had enough trouble as it was.

"Then there's a plan in the works to get Nicky back," his brother stated with certainty. "Get me back to Red Star."

* * *

Dark brown eyes worried, Marella glanced around the room at Airwolf's crew. "Cavelli knows Hawke is alive," she said, setting down the phone. "He wants Hawke and Airwolf. Anything less and he'll kill Nicky."

"Now what?" Rivers demanded, his own blue gaze meeting Michael's. "Not a one of us can pass for String. He's seen him."

Archangel grimaced, rubbing his temples. Rivers was right. Roper was the closest match and he was twenty years too young. Cavelli was no fool, he'd see through the deception up close.

"We go in as planned," he muttered, hoping he wasn't signing all their death warrants. He knew the man would like nothing better than an excuse to kill every one of them. Airwolf was a temptation, but revenge a sweeter one. "Roper will go in as Hawke. With any luck, Cavelli won't realize it until it's too late."

Across the room, Roper nodded, his own dark blue eyes hard. Unspoken or not, he knew the odds were good he, at least, wouldn't be coming back from this mission. As it was though, he figured he was their best hope all things considered of getting Nicky back with Hawke out of the running.

"Van der Berg's not going to like it," Caitlin warned, torn between a very real fear for Roper and worry for her son.

"Then give him what he wants," Hawke bit out, his voice harsh, as he stepped into the room Saint John at his elbow. "He's not getting either one of my sons."


	19. Chapter 19

"Hawke, what's to keep Van der Berg from catching on?" Caitlin asked, eyeing her husband as he struggled with his shirt.

"Nothing," String replied, brutally honest. Frustrated, he fought the buttons, knowing he'd better do a good job hiding the wire Michael placed on him or he was dead. Van der Berg would have no use for a blind pilot. "A little help here, Cait?" he growled.

Reaching for the stubborn button, the red-head sighed. "Like he's not going to guess this way?" she argued. "String be sensible. This is a bad idea."

His lean, muscled shoulder tensed under her touch, before his hands came up abruptly capturing hers. "Caitlin, he killed Jade," he muttered. "He tried to kill Michael. I'm not going to risk him killing all of you."

"And what if he kills you?" she demanded her voice desperate as she struggled to pull free. "He's already got my son. I don't even know if he's still alive! Now he wants my husband too. I can't lose both of you, String…"

"You're not going to," Hawke whispered, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand. He could feel the tremble in the fine bones there.

She didn't answer and so he tried again. "I always come back, Cait," he rasped, resting his forehead against hers. "It'll be okay…I promise."

"One of these days, you're not going to," she whispered, feeling the hot tears slide down her face as she said the words. "And then what am I going to do?"

String pulled her to him. "Not today, Cait," he muttered thickly, "and not for Van der Berg. I've got too much to live for."

* * *

Standing on the tarmac, Airwolf landed behind him, Hawke waited. Van der Berg's demands had been clear - him for the boy, anything else and he'd kill him. A devil's deal, Hawke realized - there was a good possibility Van der Berg would kill them both anyway. Not that he had much choice, he thought ruefully. Good or not, it was the only option he had.

"Heads up," Marella's voice whispered in his ear, a reassuring reminder he wasn't alone in this. "We've got company. Hughes, two minutes out, headed our way."

Uneasily, he shifted, reaching out an unsteady hand, splaying long fingers across the helicopter's nose beside him. He straightened, fighting the urge to cling to the Lady's reassuring bulk.

"Mike, how's it look on your end?" Marella's voice came clearly across the earpiece Hawke wore, tying him in with the radios the others carried.

The blonde's response was a reassuring rumble. "Ready out here," he murmured, clicking the safety off the gun he held. "No way he'll be leaving in that Hughes."

"Sinj?"

"We're good," the rangy blonde pilot answered tersely.

"Hawke, how 'bout you?" Marella queried.

He could hear the Hughes in the distance now, the faint sound of her rotors teasing his ears. He'd never felt less ready in his life. "Yeah, sure," he lied.

The rapidly approaching chop, chop of the rotors throbbed against his ears. Rotor wash blew and stung at his skin as the helicopter swooped low overhead. Instinctively, he threw up a hand ducking.

"Hughes at ten o'clock," Marella informed succinctly. Flaring, he heard the thud of the skids as they hit, the cut of the engine, the declining swoop, swoop of the blades as they slowed.

Hawke straightened with a steadying breath, shoving the aviators he wore back on. "Where is he, Marella?" he rasped, his voice a low whisper.

"Stepping out," she came back. "He's got the boy in front of him. Turn a couple degrees to your left, Hawke."

Unthinkingly, String did so. "Can you see Nicky? Is he okay?" he asked, his voice a harsh throb of emotion.

"Fine, String," she murmured. "Keep your mind on the mission."

"Not on much else," he growled.

"Ten yards out," she answered, ignoring his comment. "Greet him."

Hawke took a couple more steps forward, before stopping. He slid his thumbs into his belt loops. "Van der Berg," he intoned, his voice hard.

The scrape of hard-soled shoes on the rough concrete gave away his position. "Stringfellow Hawke," the man drawled. "Well, this is a surprise, Mr. Hawke. So good to hear reports of your death have been wildly exaggerated."

"Well, things aren't always what they seem," Hawke remarked dryly. He could feel a trickle of cold sweat running down his back, despite the bite of the cool afternoon air.

The leanly built man chuckled, the sound like ground glass grating on Hawke's ears. "I always did say you'd work for me, Hawke," he sneered.

"And I always did say you were rather full of yourself," String retorted sardonically. "Let's go this one over with, Van der Burg." He took another step closer, the uneven rasp of Nick's breath sharp in his ear now.

"I don't think so," the other man chastised sharply, the click of the safety coming off the gun Van der Burg's gun, a gun no doubt pointed at Stringfellow Hawke's chest.

Raising his hands, he froze. _How far was Nicky?_

"Airwolf, Hawke," Vander Burg snapped. "Don't forget the rest of our deal."

"No, dad, no!" Nicky cried. "He's going to take out the rest of Red Star!" The scuff of tennis shoes on the concrete, and a muffed curse from Van der Berg as the kid kicked him, gave away his position.

"Five feet in front of you, Hawke! Now!" Marella's voice yelled in his ear.

Unthinkingly, he dove towards the sound, aiming for Nicky and finding Van der Burg instead. The two men crashed to the ground, taking the boy with them.

Behind him, Hawke could hear the sound of AK-47's being raised.

"Now!" Marella's voice screamed in his ear. "Take them down, now!" Gunfire exploded around them.

"Down, Nicky! Down!" Hawke yelled, unable to find the boy. Bullets ricocheted around him, flinging a sharp shard of concrete up to bite him in the arm.

Van der Berg snatched a handful of jacket, hauling him down, slamming a hard punch to his gut.

Wheezing, Hawke fought for air, unable to get away and unable to find his son.

Sucking in a harsh, heaving breath Hawke fought the other man, Van der Berg's weight on his chest pinning him. He rolled, his knee catching the other man in the ribs. An elbow to the face broke Van der Berg's hold and Hawke fought back in earnest. He could feel the solid ache in his arm as his fist connected with the man's body, the sharp pain of his knuckles splitting. He tightened his grasp on the man and kept swinging.

The scrape of rubber-soled shoes scrabbling on the concrete gave away the fact Nicky had run.

Fear and desperation pounded through Hawke's chest, knowing the boy could be just as easily killed by a stray bullet as van der Berg.

"Get down, Nicky! Get down!" he yelled distracted. Van der Berg slung a brutal uppercut catching him in the ribs. Wheezing, String felt his hold on the man loosen, knowing if he ever got free they were both dead. Pounding steps told him the kid was running, but he couldn't tell to where…All he knew was he couldn't find him, couldn't protect him.

Running, Nicky stumbled and fell, hitting the concrete hard, his hands covering his head as the bullets pounded down around him.

Scrambling, Rivers lunged from his position towards the boy, Saint John laying down cover fire for both of them. Long legs and athletic build, he covered the distance between them, grabbing the child as he gained his feet, tucking and rolling his body under his.

Gunfire continued to rain down around them. Frantically, Roper cast about for the source of rifle-fire. Saint John flung himself behind the armor-plated helicopter, ducking the Hughes' pilot's bullets.

There was no clear shot to take out the man, he realized to his dismay.

"Do something, Michael!" he yelled, ducking yet another near miss, knowing somebody had to provide String cover and finding himself too pinned down to do it.

Roper did, finally finding his clear shot and taking out Van der Berg's back-up man.

The pilot, suddenly seeing the odds swing dramatically out of his favor, flung himself towards the Hughes' helicopter. The click of Michael's weapon as he drew down on him was loud in the sudden silence. "That's far enough."

And abruptly, it was. Unthinkingly, the man raised his hands and dropped his gun without another word.

Beside Roper, Cait had watched the scene unfold in a mix of gut-wrenching fear and relief. Even now, Nicky was flinging himself into Saint John's arms, Rivers wearily picking himself up from the concrete hanger floor and Michael protectively standing guard over both of them.

She turned heart pounding, knowing he was safe, that they would keep him safe, her blue-green eyes desperately searching for Hawke. He was still down on the tarmac where he and Van der Berg had first hit when the fighting started.

"String," she whispered, scrambling to her feet, lunging for him at a dead run.

"Cait, wait!" Roper yelled, instinctively knowing Van der Berg might still be alive, would have no hesitation in taking her out if he still had breath. He lunged after her.

He'd made it only a few feet when he saw the growing pool of blood around the man. It was evident whatever the man was, he wasn't a threat now. He staggered to a halt as he catching a twitch of movement from Hawke as he struggled to roll over. He'd caught enough of their conversation beforehand to know this was entirely between the two of them and turned his steps away from them, back towards the rest of his family.

Caitlin flung herself across the pock-marked concrete, knowing the fresh gouges were bullet holes, knowing beyond a doubt Van der Berg was dead from the pool of blood around him. Unreasoning fear clenched her gut, realizing it'd been a miracle that Nicky'd escaped unscathed, knowing a bullet like the one that had ended Van der Berg's life could have just as easily ended his.

"Hawke, Hawke! Talk to me! Are you okay?" she gasped out, the words unbidden as she threw herself down on the ground next to him.

His body twitched, convulsed as he rolled. "Where's Nicky?" he rasped. "Is he okay, Cait?" His chest heaved as he raked his hands through her hair, the words desperate.

"He's okay, String, he's okay," she murmured, her heart pounding as she gathered him into her arms.

"You're sure?" he demanded.

She nodded emphatically, running trembling fingers through his dark fringe. "Yes," she murmured, "Yes. Are you?"

"Thank God," he whispered gratefully, collapsing back against the ground shakily.

Unease slammed through her again. He still hadn't answered her. "Hawke?"

He seemed to sense her fear. "I'm fine, Cait," he whispered wearily, his hand sliding across her hair, suddenly feeling every ache in his body. If he were honest Van der Berg had come far closer to success than he ever wanted to admit.

Caitlin's forehead rested against his as she slumped forward in relief, feeling like her heart was going to pound out of her chest. Her fingers threaded through the short, brown, mink-like strands at the nape of his neck. "My hero," she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

He pulled away, his grimace wry, self-depreciating. "Yeah, right. I could've gotten Nicky killed, Cait."

Her fingers clenched on his shoulder. "But you didn't," she said vehemently. "You saved his life...makes you a hero in my book."

He sighed. "Just a man," he whispered harshly. "And I'm not even very good at that these days."

Tears spiking her lashes, Cait eyed the man she loved . "That's not true, String," she said angrily.

"Sure feels that way," he muttered. "I was so afraid I'd lost him, Cait," he whispered guiltily. "So sure."

"You didn't lose him, Hawke. He's fine," she promised. "And maybe it feels that way, but that doesn't make it true."

His sigh was harsh.

Cait frowned, brushing her lips across his. "You're still my hero, String, and you always will be."

His fingers tightened in the sweater beneath his hands. "Only you would think that," he whispered. "Only you." And wishing once more he could see the faith in her eyes, he kissed her back.


	20. Chapter 20

The wind blew off the ocean sharp and crisp, only missing being too cold by a hair. Treading water, the blue-grey eyes squinted at the horizon line.

He hadn't been here in weeks. In truth, he wasn't sure he'd ever wanted to come back, the memory of that first perfect day with Jade intrinsically forever linked to this place. He'd found her here, nearly lost her here and now he was back without her. Yet ironically, this was where he'd always felt closest to her.

He sighed heavily, feeling the board ride the wave beneath him like it was a part of it. It rocked and ebbed with the water, the waves making sucking sounds against the underbelly of the flat surface.

Pushing up, he slid astride the burnt orange surfboard paddling out. Memories slid together, Jade on the beach, in his arms, the day of the picnic, String's unexplained anger at her. Resentment flared briefly, before he recognized the emotion for what it had been - fear. His brother had been horribly afraid, afraid for him when he'd met her that day. It was as if he'd known, he thought angrily.

He scowled, feeling the burn of little used muscles protesting the tide's pull. Maybe he had, he thought ruefully, remembering the remembrance ceremony on the shores of the lake for String.

The difference was - String had come back, Jade obviously wasn't.

Impatiently, he shoved the surge of emotion away. Jade was gone. There was nothing he could do to change it. Not now, not ever.

The wind changed - sweet and salty, ruffling his hair. Scooping water, he paddled out through the weed line, hearing the roar of the ocean in his ears. The board flowed across the waves, their salty caress frothing over it.

The wave ahead of him rolled and crested, and instinctively he slid the board into it, catching the roller, letting it carry him where it would. Effortlessly, the surfboard slid through the water the same as it had that first day.

The wave ebbed and died. The sun warm on his back, Seb felt a sense of peace he hadn't felt since the day they'd argued on the beach. It was funny he thought, if he closed his eyes he could almost imagine her there, still a part of him.

He turned the surfboard, long, lean arms slicing through the water with a careless grace as they pulled the board forward. Looking out towards the horizon line, he paddled out, feeling the aching tightness in his chest ease under the sun's heat and ocean's salty kiss.

_Maybe String had been right, he thought. Maybe it had been destined to nothing but heartbreak…but he wasn't sorry. The time he'd spent with Jade had been the happiest in his life._

_Her laughter still rang in the waves, the glisten of the sun off the water. He guessed it always would, feeling his tears mingle with the salty droplets on his face, suddenly certain if he'd asked her to marry him what her answer would've been._

_Yes. Always yes._

Seb swallowed hard against the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him, closing his eyes against the pain.

He swung the board around, sluicing towards the next wave as it crested. Catching it, he pushed up effortlessly, seamlessly, at one with the ocean, gaining his footing. The board sliced through the water at one with it, even as he crouched, adjusting for balance, his hand trailing behind him in the flume.

He grinned, hearing the words again.

_That alone would've made it worthwhile._

"You betcha, Jade," he whispered. "You betcha."


	21. Chapter 21

Jet ranger flaring, Saint John set the helicopter down on the dock feeling the familiar shudder of the wood beneath him as he did so. He raked the headset off his head, ignoring the twinge of nerves in his gut. For pity's sake, Saint John Hawke, he thought in disgust, one would think you'd never gone fishing before. He's your brother for Pete's sake_. _Shaking his head ruefully, he hung the headset on the peg before him.

Still, it'd been years since he'd fished with String. Memories of a ragtag little brother pleading to go teased his mind.

"_Sinj! Sinj! Please, can I go? I promise I won't scare the fish…" his brother merely eight, and him twelve, he'd rolled his eyes in disgust, remembering the last time the kid had gone and dumped them both in the lake. Their parents had been alive then._

* * *

"_Come on, Saint John," String had laughed, dark blue eyes laughing in the sunshine. "You know the only reason you don't want to go, is Dom and I are going to fish you under the table." The older man had chuckled sensing the challenge in the younger man's voice._

_He'd been right, Saint John thought ruefully. They had. It'd been one of the last times he's seen Dom laugh, leaving for boot camp a couple days later. The next few days had not been so happy, the old Italian torn between pride for his eldest surrogate son and a healthy sense of fear. String hadn't made it any easier, pushing to join him. He'd been too young, but that hadn't stopped him from trying._

* * *

The years in between had passed and String had extended the invite from time to time, but somehow he'd seldom ever seemed to take him up on it. Dom was long since gone and so was the little brother who'd tagged along all those years ago.

Climbing down from the helicopter, hazel eyes swung across the lake to the cabin porch. Well, maybe not, he thought wryly, feeling a grin tug at his lips. String perched on the top rail of the porch waiting. Idly, he wondered how long he'd been there.

Chuckling, he started up the path. "Stringfellow Hawke," he teased. "One would think you have nothing better to do than hang around and go fishing."

String's grin, though brief, was real. "I don't," he said.

Gentle amusement lacing his voice, Saint John glanced at his younger brother, raising an eyebrow. "Getting lazy in your old age there, Hawke," he taunted.

"Yeah, well, so what does it say about you?" his brother retorted. "Besides," he drawled, "I can think of worse ways to go." The tone was laconic.

Saint John felt his lips twist in amusement. He glanced around, expecting to hear the sounds of Cait and the kids inside the cabin. It was silent. There was nothing.

"So what'd you do with Cait and the kids?" he asked. "Not using them as bait, I hope."

String's laugh was rough and a little rusty. "Nah, they took the chopper and went to town."

Saint John nodded, even as he eyed his brother. String looked better than he had in weeks, at peace with himself. "Mmm," he muttered non-commitally. "So, what's keeping us here?" he asked.

"Not a thing," his brother drawled, confidently taking the three steps across the porch to where the fishing rods leaned. His fingers slid across the rough bark of the logs, before they wrapped around the rods.

Adeptly, he transferred the poles to his left hand and turning, took a couple steps before his outstretched hand caught the post before him.

If Saint John hadn't known he was blind, he wasn't sure he would've caught it.

He fought the sudden lump of pride that clogged his throat and burned his eyes. "You want me to carry those?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"Sure," String accepted the offer matter of factly, with a shrug.

Saint John reached out and took the fishing rods, again feeling the rush of pride, knowing where his brother'd been only a few short weeks ago.

He hesitated, wondering if he should offer String a hand to negotiate the steps.

And again, his brother surprised him.

Hand sliding down the well-worn wood rail, he made his way down the plank steps unhesitatingly. At the bottom he paused as if listening, perhaps for his brother's footsteps behind him. "Saint John?"

"Yeah?"

"We going fishing or what?"

* * *

The water lapped at the sides of the boat, mother nature's hand gently rocking the cradle of life. The motion would've been soothing were it not for the splitting headache it was giving Stringfellow Hawke.

The downside to seeing more than shadows, he thought wryly, a half-grin teasing his lean cheek - _**not that he'd ever complain**_. His vision had been coming back gradually over the last few days, at first only shadows and vague movement, he'd been hesitant to say anything, afraid to hope for too much, afraid to raise the others' hopes and certainly afraid to raise his own.

It still wasn't everything it was before, but it was enough to keep him from falling on his face over every blessed thing.

He'd come to realize though, he'd had a gift much more precious to him than his sight - the love of his family. Whether he ever flew again or not, he knew he was blessed, even if sometimes he'd been too pigheaded to realize it. Faith might've carried him through, but they'd been waiting for him on the other side.

He raised dark blue eyes hidden by aviator shades to watch Saint John. The sun was edging down behind the mountain tops, starting to shadow their craggy slopes. " 'Bout time to head back, don't you think?" he asked.

Saint John looked up from the fish he was threading onto the stringer, startled. It was later than he'd realized. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. "Jo'll be expecting me back."

Hawke stifled a smirk. "Cait said something about bringing her back to the cabin for dinner."

Saint John raised an eyebrow. It was the first he'd heard of a dinner invitation. "Oh?" he replied, having the sudden odd feeling he'd been had. _String was up to something._

Hawke shrugged. "Sorry, guess I forgot to say something. Might want to head back before they get there…"

"Yeah," the hazel-eyed Hawke drawled, sure now he was missing something, just unable to put his finger on it. He dropped the fish on the stringer back over the side of the boat and reached for the oars.

* * *

Wearily, Saint John Hawke pulled the oars one last time, the skiff sliding across the flat water towards the dock. Dropping the oars in the bottom of the boat, he reached to catch the front end of the boat before it bumped. Despite everything, the skiff stubbornly swung out from the dock.

"Hey, String, how 'bout catching the line?" he growled in irritation, hauling in on the tie line. He realized the thoughtless stupidity of his comment almost as soon as he said it. _How was a blind man supposed to catch a tie line? _A dull red, embarrassed flush climbed his neck. He reached down for the fish.

Apology on his lips, he turned.

His brother wasn't in the boat.

"String?" he questioned, confused.

"Here," Hawke's rough voice answered, from the top of the dock.

Startled, Saint John eyed his brother and then the ladder down the side of the dock to the boat and back again, perplexed. "How…? never mind…" he muttered, confused. He sighed, picking up the fish, still shaking his head.

He stood, balancing in the boat, reaching for the ladder, wet, live fish flopping and dancing on the stringer making everything wet and slick, ladder rungs included. Not surprisingly, halfway up the ladder he slipped.

A strong, tan hand caught his arm, square-tipped fingers wrapping themselves tightly around his forearm, hauling him upward. "Careful," the husky rasp warned.

Hazel eyes met dark blue ones, crinkling around the edges.

And realization dawned. "You can see…" Saint John whispered, stunned amazement in his voice, a grin splitting his face.

String grinned back at him. "Yeah."

"Woo - hoo!" Saint John's triumphant, celebratory yell echoed off the mountainsides, as he swung his brother around in a bear hug that almost landed them both in the lake.

Neither one noticed.

* * *

Watching the helicopter with the last of his dinner guests fade from sight, Stringfellow Hawke sat on the dock, cello in hand. The evening wind was cool, whipping his hair into his eyes even as he idly drew the bow across the strings. Strong, slender fingers picked out the notes more from experience and feel than sight, and a haunting Prokiev melody floated on the wind.

From the porch, Nicky listened, remembering a promise he'd made. And then finally, drawing a deep breath, he took the first step down the stairs.

He had a promise to keep. A promise to both of them.


End file.
